Intoxication
by nos tres reges
Summary: There is a fine line between persistence and harassment.


_For Vlad._

_**Intoxication**_

"Mostly," said the roof to the sky,

"the distance between you and I is endlessness;

But a while ago two came up here,

and only one centimeter was left between us."

_Hila Plitmann_

* * *

"What, Potter?"

"Nothing," I reply quickly, and punctuate it by shaking my head. "Sorry. Was just looking at that suit of armor, and you happened to move in the way."

Daphne Greengrass–sweet, sweet Daphne Greengrass, who has the most incredible blue eyes, black hair that sweeps around her head like waves caressing a beach, and a fucking killer body–just raises an eyebrow at me. A slim, well-groomed eyebrow.

This alone gives me a hard-on. Or it would, if I was so un-suave as to show it. Since I started seeing Daphne, I've been practicing being a bit cooler in temperament for moments just like these. No, I'll save my hard-on for later, when I add this memory to Dumbledore's Pensieve. (I'm not sure that's what he intended me to use it for, but now that Voldemort's gone, it's the best use for it that I can think of.)

"See that it doesn't happen again," she says. She doesn't even bother to stop walking.

"Sorry," I reply. Damn it. The conversation is ending way too quickly, and Daphne is too quickly escaping down the hallway. "Hey, Greengrass–" I begin, but she cuts me off with a glare.

"Potter, I have way better things to be doing."

"Oh?" I ask. "You don't even have time to answer a question from the Vanquisher of Voldemort?"

That stops her. I file away a notice for future reference to use that one again.

She puts her hand on hip. "What, Potter? Make it quick; I have Transfiguration in just ten minutes. I'm not being late for you."

Oh shit. She's calling my bluff. Think, Potter! This had better be a good question...

"Erm," I begin. Brilliant. "So, I heard that your sister didn't come back?"

"'Storie?" She looks surprised that I know she has a sister. "Yeah. What about her?"

"Like I said, I heard that she didn't come back."

"Potter, most of Slytherins didn't come back. Old McGrouchy wasn't going to let half of us back in, anyway, before the Board got involved."

"But you're here," I reply.

Again, Daphne Greengrass raises an eyebrow. "Well spotted, Potter. Have any more profound observations to share?"

I roll my eyes, and step out from behind the hanging tapestry that was concealing half of me. The secret passage behind me closes with a _schlupp_. "No, Greengrass. I mean that you're here and she's not. Why is that?"

"Why does it matter that she's not here?"

"Don't be obtuse," I scold gently. "It matters because she's your sister, and if they let you in, there would be little reason not to let her in."

"That's not a reason why it matters; that's a moral judgment."

She really is being quite obtuse. She knows what I'm playing at. It doesn't bother me. To be honest, it's kind of hot how she dances around my questions.

"All right, Greengrass. Let me make it clear: why is your sister not here?"

"Because my mother wanted her to stay at home, that's why. Now are you done terrorizing me?"

I grin, since she is answering my questions without hesitation, now. Time is on my side; she can't leave and risk being rude (just one more thing that I've figured out about Daphne: she has an impeccable sense of manners, despite the wickedness of her tongue). "I'd heard that she'd been engaged to Malfoy."

Daphne finally fully turns to look at me. Her face is as inscrutable as ever. "If you knew, then why did you ask?"

I shake my head. "Just wondering," I say, as I turn to leave. Once my back is to her, my grin doubles. Hook, line, and–

"Wondering _what_, Potter?"

Sinker!

"Oh, nothing," I reply. "Not that important."

It really is a good ploy, so I'm very surprised when Daphne doesn't rise to the bait. "Whatever. I'm going to be late to Transfiguration, thanks to you."

When I turn to look at her again, she's out of sight.

* * *

It's hard to say when my interest in Daphne began.

After Voldemort died, I took the summer off. I make that sound like it was my choice, but really it wasn't; Molly Weasley was convinced that I shouldn't be doing any work–that I should just leave it to the adults–and that I should make it my point to be a kid again. She didn't hear any argument that I was, in fact, legally an adult, nor did she hear my complaint that it wasn't her job to tell me what to do. Molly has a way of making her will felt; maybe it's that she has the largest voting block in the Order, or maybe it's because she has the loudest voice, and likes to slap people with kitchen implements. Regardless, the Order sided with her, and it suddenly became impossible to work without impedance. That, and my girlfriend was suddenly and repeatedly grounded for insignificant things.

Since I couldn't see Ginny, and since Ron was too busy sucking Hermione's face off (and vice-versa), I did what I could to keep boredom off, and traveled the world, or as much of it as I care to see. It troubles me that everyone is just as dumb elsewhere, though in some places that I visited, their idiocy was far more outspoken. Nevertheless, I succeeded in avoiding boredom for the two months while I was away. Unfortunately, I'd underestimated my own role in beating back stupid in my own country, and by the time I got back, my absence in the reformation process had been decried in the newspaper twenty times over, and I was suddenly less than a hero again.

I should have recognized that it wouldn't have won me any points with Ginny, but at that point, it was clear where I was needed. I thrust myself into the politics, damning any consequence that Molly might heap down on me. One thing that I'll say about Molly is that she has the courage of her convictions: she was utterly convinced that I oughtn't be frolicking around with the professional politicians, but rather playing Quidditch, and getting ready for my last year at Hogwarts. One other thing I'll say about Molly: she is obstinacy incarnate. That woman doesn't know how to change her mind about something. When I refused to just lie down, she restricted my access to Ginny even more. I'm sure Ginny knew at first that it wasn't my fault, but you can't be locked up in a room all summer and not start to resent everyone involved in putting you there.

I should clarify. Ginny wasn't _literally_ locked inside her room–just the Burrow. Still, I sympathized with her, and that led to what came next.

Her posts to me started to get a bit nastier with time. I suppose I should have picked up on it earlier, but it took a particularly rude comment about my efforts in the Ministry for me to notice it. Now, when I think about it, I'm irritated, but then–then, I was worried about losing the love of my life. I laid down my formal robes, made some excuse about 'wanting to spend more time with family and friends' to my compatriots, and took my leave of the political scene to go stay at the Burrow for a while.

Things weren't the same between me and Ginny, but it didn't become so apparent until after I was locked into returning for my seventh year at Hogwarts. For one, Ginny wouldn't kiss me around her mother. For two, she wasn't interested in taking things farther–which is fine, I hasten to add, but frankly, I hadn't even been on base in so long that I'd pretty much forgot how to swing the bat. I was ready for something; she wasn't. For three, that whole 'stupid' thing I was talking about really started to rub me the wrong way about her. Ginny, bless her heart, is a simple soul like her mother. She has a very narrow view of causality and reason. That–well, I just didn't know that I could live with that.

For four, Molly is a psychopath. I _knew_ at that point that I couldn't be with Ginny for the rest of my life because of that, but our existence was comfortable, and I had no desire to change that.

For five, I'd always assumed Ginny's proclivity for kiss-and-dump had been a show to make me notice her. Not ten minutes after we made it back to Hogwarts, Ginny was kissing that tosspot Zacharias Smith. You might think that would have upset me pretty bad, and you'd be right. I did rage for two weeks. I hexed Smith to Thursday and back, which earned me a sharp rebuke from McGonagall and a warning that I'd lose the Head Boy badge if I ever did something like that again. I cursed Ginny's name a thousand times over, and wept about my loss at night.

But, secretly, deep inside myself, I felt like I was freed from chains I hadn't known I'd been restrained by.

* * *

"Psst!"

The black-haired girl spins about. "Potter?"

"In the flesh," I say with a wink. The irony is that I'm disguised as one of the suits of armor that line the castle, so there's really no flesh involved. With a lazy wave of my wand, though, I'm out of the armor, and striding toward her. I've really got the Snape-style cloak billow going on. It's taken practice, but the sheer effect of it is just awe-inspiring. I admire the man for that, if nothing else. Hell, I admire _myself_ for it.

"What do you want this time?" she asks.

She's just slightly less annoyed than she was the last time. I'm pleased with the improvement. "Nothing more than your wonderful company, Greengrass."

She gives a little grunt of contempt. "Right. If that's all–"

"No, it's not all," I say. It does make me a little angry, her dismissal. "What do you have to rush off to today, huh? Transfiguration? Potions?"

"If you must know, I just dislike you, Potter. I find it more than a little creepy that you keep popping out of nowhere to blab on about nothing to me."

Straight jab, I swear. I can't imagine the contortions my face undergoes, before it finally settles back down into a look of hurt. "Ouch, Greengrass."

"Truth hurts."

"You could at least take pity on a guy."

She surveys me coolly, but I can tell she's sizing me up. "You are pretty pitiful."

"Bah," I say, waving my hand in dismissal. "So, anyway, your sister, Astoria–" I was sure to look up the Greengrass family tree after our last chat. Forearmed is forewarned, after all. "–is engaged to Draco Malfoy. I saw the announcement in one of the back issues of the Prophet."

"I don't see why you're so obsessed about her."

I step just a little faster so that I can walk beside Daphne. "Oh, I'm not obsessed with your sister," I reply. "Far from it, actually. I'm really just curious why a girl who should be a sixth year is engaged to a graduate."

"Contrary to what you might think, Potter, my parents hardly needed your permission to give theirs."

"You misunderstand me: why is she engaged to Malfoy? Why aren't you?" I knew the answer, but I was curious to see what she would share with me.

Daphne flushes. "That's a pretty damn personal question, Potter."

We walk around the corner, and the Library comes into sight. "That's okay," I reply, deciding to take a page out of Ron's playbook and act oblivious. "I don't mind."

"You've some nerve."

"Had to work it up to talk to someone like you," I reply. Sometimes, the direct approach is the best. "I find you fascinating, Greengrass, but you're a mystery to me. Going to answer my question?"

"Fuck off."

I smile softly. "Whatever you'd like." We're outside one of the secret passageways that I've found, anyway, and so I casually reach out, twist the wall sconce, and wave good-bye to Daphne. "See you later, Greengrass."

I'm well into the passageway before my smile twists into an angry snarl.

* * *

And that brings me back to why I'm chasing after Daphne. With a rebound girl as phenomenally sex-crazy as Hannah Abbott is, it was hard not to be catapulted back into good living. I'd finally lost that little bit of naïvety, I'd struck back at Ginny a little, and I was mentally back on top of my game. With Ron gone, off working for George, with Hermione taking her Head Girl duties way too seriously, with no Quidditch that year (still too much threat from uncaptured Death Eaters), and with lingering nightmare and insomnia issues, I was free to and had a reason to explore Hogwarts.

And explore Hogwarts I did. I found secrets that would have curled Tom Riddle's ears, had he known about them. Did you know that there's a secret interior escalator for the Headmaster or Headmistress that can take them anywhere in the castle in about two minutes flat? Did you know that Hogwarts has catacombs?

Neither did I, at first, but I digress.

I first heard her name when I was exploring an unused wing of classrooms. Blaise Zabini and Theodore Nott–both acquitted, both rich–were out on a late-night expedition, too, and were chatting quietly to each other. I'm not ashamed to admit that I followed them under my cloak for a while, curious to see what they were up to, and equally eager to bust them doing something they oughtn't be doing. (I'm an ass of a Head Boy, I know, but I've never regretted a grudge, and McGonagall had given me _carte blanche in handling school affairs.) _

Of course, they were just heading for a midnight snack, but that didn't stop me from hearing them talk about her:

"Hear you've got your eye on that Greengrass bint," Nott says to Zabini, as he reaches forward to tickle the pear on the portrait that blocks the kitchens.

Zabini just smirks. It's such a trademark Zabini move that I want to laugh. "And what if I do?"

Nott pauses just before he steps into the Kitchens, and he shakes his head. "It's not like you, Blaise."

"And why not?" Zabini scoffs. "She's no Mudblood, and she's got a sweet arse. I'm not looking for a wife, just a quick lay."

"Don't you remember what she did to Malfoy?"

My ears perk up.

"Shows she's got good taste, that's all," responds Zabini, as he accepts the platter of sandwiches handed to him by a House-Elf. No words needed; this is obviously a routine. My case against them is building by the moment. "And don't forget what Malfoy did to her, too."

Nott shakes his head. "What he did was legit, at the time."

Zabini just laughs. "What he did would land him in Azkaban if Greengrass ever decided to tell. No, as far as I'm concerned, it was fair game for her to refuse him, especially after he put her in the hospital wing for six months."

"What's got into you, mate?" wonders Nott aloud, before he bites into a half-sandwich. Salmon and lettuce, if I'm not mistaken.

"Nothing," snaps Zabini. "I want in Greengrass' pants, and you'll have to excuse me if I'm happy that she didn't exactly grant Malfoy access first. Then again," he pauses, "if Parkinson isn't lying, he wouldn't know what to do, anyway, once he got there."

"And what if Greengrass won't drop trou for you?"

"She will," replies Zabini with confidence. "No woman has denied me yet."

"Just because there hasn't been one doesn't mean there isn't one. I mean it, Blaise: Greengrass is serious business. I don't get anywhere near her because she's so damn unpredictable."

"But that's the appeal," says Zabini breathily. "She's so..."

"Dangerous?" supplies Nott.

"Yeah," agrees Zabini. "I mean, you know how she and her sister got along. So what does she do to Malfoy? She Confunds her parents, and then betroths Astoria to the Ponce. Anybody who is that cold to her siblings is dangerous, mate, and that is damn sexy."

I've heard enough. I probably don't have to worry about these two, but since I've had a few bad experiences with Slytherins, I decide to be cautious. My wand is in my hand, and Nott–by far the more dangerous opponent–has collapsed from my stunner before Zabini even notices something is wrong. He has his hand stuffed inside his robe when I stun him, too. There's panic amongst the House-Elves, but I take off my invisibility cloak and they all stop in their tracks and stare at me like frightened children.

Fortunately, House-Elves are very susceptible to human magic, and it only takes me a single _Obliviate_ to have the mass calmed, and completely and blissfully unaware of the presence of three humans in their Kitchens.

I employ Memory Charms on the two boys as well. They will have no idea they were stunned, and won't recall waking, thanks to a deft Confounding, but they'll remember being docked twenty points after bumping into me on the way down.

Once I have my cloak back on, I wake them, let them rise groggily, and nudge them out the door with another whispered _Confundo_. I wait about five minutes for them to clear out properly, and then make my way back to the Tower. It's past midnight, now, and I'm deprived enough that I think I have it in me to sleep through the night.

'Course, it's hard to leave the Kitchens without a snack. I do love salmon sandwiches.

* * *

I kept hearing Daphne's name around the first few months of school. Professor Ghomeshi, the new Transfiguration teacher, couldn't praise her enough. Hermione spoke of her kindly after a meeting of the female prefects to discuss the sudden popularity of skiving classes during menstrual cycles (oh, the things we Heads and Prefects concern ourselves with, I tell you...). She won Slytherin fifty points for preventing an upset Thestral from killing Marcus Flint's little sister. Of course, there was the notice for her sister's engagement in the _Prophet_. I clipped it out and saved it in a notebook I kept, in which I tracked every reference to her that I encountered.

The notebook came into play pretty quickly. At first, I had anticipated that she was up to something, since I kept hearing her name. The notebook was a logical way to keep my observations of her fresh and at hand. My suspicious did not last, but the notebook did. Instead of a casebook, the notebook became an impressive dossier of her personal accomplishments. It also contained a fairly accurate sketch of what people thought of her.

Nobody really liked her, that much was clear. The Gryffindors hated her because she was a Slytherin. The Slytherins uniformly hated her because she was a Slytherin, and _what a Slytherin! Zabini had not been making it up; she had quite a bit of talent, and while her morals were consistent, they were also consistent in how egocentric they were, and that did make her astoundingly dangerous. It was her talent that irritated the Ravenclaws, though some were irritated by her attitude. It was hard to tell what bothered the Hufflepuffs, since they were still a-tizzle about Susan Bones and Heidi MacAvoy being caught snogging in a broom closet. _

(Full disclosure: I was the one who found them. That memory is on 'permanent loop' in my Pensieve.)

That said, everybody at Hogwarts liked her. I contradict myself, I know, but here's what I mean: while nobody wanted to be Daphne Greengrass's friend, everybody wanted to be close to her. Blaise was the most obvious of all the students, though he, unlike the others, had an odd and frankly incorrect belief that he was much better than her. You could've see it much easier in the rest, though: Luna went out of her way to switch partners in Potions so that she could sit with Daphne. Justin Finch-Fletchley went well out of his way to hold open doors for her. Fuck, even Euan Abercrombie went out of his way to stare at her tits, and he was queer up to his pointy ears.

It was impossible to ignore such an enigma. I simply _had_ to wrap my head around her. It was odd, but I felt bewitched by her, so much, in fact, that I had Madame Pomfrey check me out for lingering spells or potions. The tests came up negative for spells. It only showed the residue from the medicinal potion I take, and I knew those to be untainted, since I brewed them myself. My feelings for her–they had to be something of their own right. I'm no coward, so I knew right away that I would have to approach her. It was the first time I'd ever felt something so... _substantive_ for someone, though, so I knew I had to do it right.

And so, for the first two months, I watched her on the Marauders' Map, and observed her schedule whenever I could. It all went down into the notebook, and the act of writing it emblazoned it into my brain. It's not that Daphne was so regular as to be predictable, but there was a limited set of permutations in her schedule. I had never had any intention to use the map for very long. After I was capable of predicting her whereabouts three times out of four, I stopped using it to find her. It was one thing to use it to learn her schedule; it was another thing to cheat so blatantly. I wanted the thrill of the chase that comes with courtship–the gleeful happiness of lying in wait, the instant pleasure of my sweetheart's smile.

Well, I always knew where she would be, at least. I didn't expect smiles immediately.

* * *

"Daaaaaphne," I say, teasingly, once she rounds the corner.

Daphne lets out a frightened yelp as she sees me. "Sweet Merlin, Potter!" she exclaims, as she clutches at her chest. She's out of breath, and her face is pink. It's so adorable; it makes me want to kiss her right then and there.

I cancel the compression charms that are keeping blood from rushing to my head; with another flick of my wand, my feet are unstuck from the ceiling, and with a third flick, the area-bound Inversion Charm ends. I'm deposited gently on the ground as the magic fades.

"Did you like that one?" I ask. I hold my grin, waiting for her inevitable praise. I can be so creative when I'm inspired by love.

"That was... very frightening," she replies.

I grin. "Thank you."

She turns her head just slightly to look at me. I'm not crazy; I can tell perfectly even in the darkened corridor that I really did frighten her, and she's wondering about me. Oh dear. Damage control time.

"I didn't mean to frighten you that badly," I blurt out, in a rushed, garbled way that I hope she finds cute.

"Potter–"

"–I just wanted to surprise you, and maybe just show off a little magic for you–"

"Potter–!"

"–I really just didn't mean to frighten you. I'm sorry. Please don't hate me."

"Potter!"

Daphne doesn't have to raise her voice to get me to listen to her (I'm always listening to what she says, after all), but she thinks she does. I give her my full attention.

"Listen, Potter," she says, finally. "You–you did give me quite a fright. But that's okay. I don't hate–well, I–" She pauses for a second, before looking me right in the eye. "Why are you always following me?"

I'm not expecting that question, and, accordingly, I answer with complete honesty. "Because I love you," I reply. Brilliant, Potter.

Nor is she apparently expecting that response, or, if she is, she seems shocked about it, anyway. "What?" she asks. "_What?_"

"I love you," I reply. Now that it's out there, there's no turning back. Either she rejects me, or she loves me back. Oh, Merlin, let it be the latter. If there is any justice in the world, let her love me back...

"But you don't even know me!" she blurts.

It's like I've been stabbed right through the heart. I cannot help but deflate. My eyes shrink from hers.

Daphne sees it, too, and she shrinks a little, too. "No, Potter, don't pull that wounded puppy routine of yours," she says angrily. "You can't put something like that on me like that and expect me to just like you back."

"I'm sorry I've been bothering you," I say. I turn to leave.

She grabs my shoulder. If I wasn't feeling so dead inside, I'd probably be jumping for joy–it's the first time she's touched me.

"Come on, Potter," she says plaintively. "Stop and talk with me for a second. You didn't have a problem doing that earlier."

"I didn't know you hated me, then."

Daphne looks like she's forcing out the next few words. "I don't hate you." She shakes her head, and her black hair, disturbed, shifts slightly in the drafty castle breeze. She quickly adds, "But, Potter, you don't even know me. Really. I'd bet you couldn't even tell me what my middle name is, or what my favourite food is. And this is all beside the point. Why do you think you're in love with me? We've barely talked, and when we have, it's because you've been creeping up on me."

"Why am I in love with you?" I weigh my response, but it is almost automatic, anyway, since reciting the reasons helps me fall asleep at night. "First of all, I can't help but be astounded by how clever you are."

"Granger's clever, too," she rebuts, "and you're closer to her. That's nothing unique about me."

"Yeah, but Hermione's book-clever, not brains-clever. If I wanted to know about something, I'd go ask Hermione. If I wanted to discuss something, you'd be the first person I'd come see."

Daphne makes no motion, so I take it as a blessing to continue.

"Second, I really appreciate your personality. Like I said before, I find you intriguing and alluring. You're more emotionally distant than I am, and you're more complex, mentally. I'm drawn to you because of that."

"Okay," she replies shakily.

"Third, I appreciate that you're not a mindless Pureblood supremacist, like most of Slytherin, and fourth, I appreciate your support of Werewolf rights."

"How did you–?"

"–I saw you tearing up when Professor Lupin's resignation was announced," I reply quickly. Of course, I didn't see her crying the first time, but I did see her when I relived that scene in my Pensieve. "The Ministry also keeps records of everyone who's made a donation to certain charities–ones that they find suspect, that is. You've chipped in over two hundred Galleons to the _Werewolf Wellbeing Fund_. It might not be on the level of a Malfoy donation, but it shows that you give what you've got. I admire that.

"Fifth, I love the way you physically look. When you're not wearing robes, I can see the camisole sticking out underneath your shirt, and the way it sits against your hips is heavenly. Your skin is just phenomenal. Your eyes, they draw me in, and your hair is beautiful."

I reach up to take a small strand between my fingers, and to stroke her cheek twice gently with the side of my finger. To her credit, she doesn't flinch away. Her hair is just as soft as I had imagined, and when I pull my hand away–I don't dare linger there, since I do not want to abuse the kindness she has granted me–I smell Satsumas, briefly.

There is silence for a moment before I speak again. "Why do I love you? I find you completely intoxicating. I don't believe anyone who glances at you could resist falling in love."

She's quiet, and I can tell she's wrestling with her thoughts. It takes her a minute to formulate a response, and it is the best one that I could have hoped for. "That's sweet, Potter," she replies. "Really, I think that's one of the nicest things anyone's ever said to me."

"I mean every word," I reply earnestly. "And believe me, I'm trying to get to know you. I mean, I know you lobbed me softball questions, because I know perfectly well that your middle name is Alexis and that your favourite food is ice cream, but I really would like to get to know you a bit better."

I wonder if I've said something wrong, since her eyebrow raises, which is Daphnese for 'What the hell?' Daphne takes a step closer to me. "How do you know these things?!"

"Your mother's name is Alexis," I reply, "and you always sign your homework with your middle initial. Beyond that, I checked at the Ministry for your birth record, too. As to the ice cream, you've eaten it for dessert three nights in a row, and you almost always have it when you're not too full. Beyond that, your favourite hot food is curry."

Daphne doesn't seem to know what to say. She seems unhappy. Finally, she opens her mouth, and blurts out what's on her mind, it seems. "But I don't know you at all, either, Potter."

"What's there to know?" I ask with a shrug. "Eighteen years old. Have a scar on my forehead. Pretty decent at Quidditch. Once killed a guy, but I'd like to think I'm better known for being a fantastic snog." I debate adding '–and an even better shag', but this is Daphne, and I really, _really_ want her to like me.

Daphne seems to have regained her composure. "I haven't spent any time with you," she replies, as if this settles the matter. "And your summary of yourself isn't quite the whole picture, I'm sure. I don't–"

"Well, then, you know what the solution is, right?"

Daphne sighs. "Potter–"

"Daaaaaaaphne," I reply, teasingly.

"That's _Greengrass_ to you, Potter."

"That's _Harry_ to you, Daphne."

She sighs again. "Harry, I'm not interested–"

"The solution," I say, "is spending just a bit more time together. Get to know one another, y'know?"

"I don't–"

I don't quite want to hear her objections yet. "It doesn't have to be a long time. Just... meet me in the library, one night. Hell, we can even do our homework for Charms while we're there."

"Potter, I'm not interested, sorry."

"I won't take no for an answer, Greengrass. Just one date."

"Potter, no."

"C'mon." I stick out my lip in a pout. "Just give me a chance. I promise you won't regret it."

"I regret it already," she replies, and she tries to walk around me. I sidestep to keep myself in front of her.

"One date. That's all. I've discovered more secrets about Hogwarts than anyone else ever has, but there remains this one stubborn jewel, and she's standing right in front of me. Please, give me the chance to discover this last one."

She stops, and looks up at me. "One date. Fine. Now just let me go."

"Really? Brilliant!" I am surprised she acquiesced so easily.

"That remains to be seen," she replies. "Now just let me go, Potter."

I step to the side. "After you, fair lady."

Daphne sighs again. "Potter, are you going to follow me all the way to the dungeons?"

"You're not going to the dungeons," I reply. Of course, I don't know for sure, but I can make a fairly accurate guess that she's headed to the Kitchens for chocolate. She does this whenever she's about to get her monthlies. That's partially why I'm not too upset at the way she's acting toward me. I know she'll be fractionally nicer in a week.

Daphne's look cuts through me like only only a look of hers can. "You _are_ a creep, Potter."

"Consider it flattery," I reply. "I meant it, Daphne. Being around you, being in your presence, just hearing your name–it's intoxicating. I'm not trying to be creepy. I just can't help but to want you–to want to be near you–more and more."

"Well, go get drunk off of something else," she snaps. "Really, Potter, you have no idea how much I'm regretting agreeing to go out on a date with you. Just... make yourself scarce, really, before I change my mind."

"All right," I say. "A bloke can take a hint. I'll see you soon, Daphne."

"Too soon," mutters Daphne, and I chuckle at her little joke and blow her a kiss before I peel off from our two-person formation and head down a corridor that leads back toward the center of the school.

I am still astounded at my luck. I am going to go on a date with Daphne Greengrass. I cannot help but grin goofily.

* * *

At the same time that I reflected on my success with Daphne, I wished that my dad, or my godfather, or Remus were still alive. I couldn't help but compare how I'd got Daphne to agree to a date to my father's progressive wooing of my mother. 'Be determined' was what everyone had told me. I'd like to think I was doggedly determined. I never would have thought I had it in me, but I really have been inspired to new heights by the girl of my dreams.

I had to brush off her comments about being creepy. I had my doubts when I set upon the method, but it was as plain as daylight that Daphne and I were destined, set together by fate, or what-have-you... The only way I knew to make a girl fall in love with me for good was my dad's way. It didn't make sense, at first, but it slowly came to me: it's all about devotion. You have to prove you're devoted. You have to show that you're willing to be faithful, even that you're desperate–that you are nothing without her. That was me: I couldn't've stopped thinking about Daphne if I had tried.

It was also important to keep it quiet, in case something went wrong. There was nothing potentially more destructive to my reputation than to have everyone else know my girl bailed on me before the date. I expected Daphne to try to bail at least once or twice. That was why I kept it quiet. I was very, _very_ surprised when I didn't hear anything from her.

I was doubly surprised when I was cornered by four Slytherins. It was so surprising because I had never let my guard down before. I had always been so careful around them before, since I knew a few of them had Death Eater fathers or mothers, and since I knew quite a few of them carried grudges.

That was what I got for planning a date in my head. _Constant vigilance_ cannot stop when you're in love.

* * *

"Oi, tosspot!" calls Gregory Goyle, and he cracks his knuckles threateningly.

I turn around. I am inside a deserted classroom, well after curfew, and am along the farthest wall from the door. Goyle and Theodore Nott are before me. Taking up the rear and guarding the door is Malcolm Baddock, a tanned, stocky boy. Dylan Urquhart, once Slytherin Quidditch Captain, and all-around moron, seems to be standing in the doorframe itself, one eye looking in and one eye looking out. They have me fenced in. All of them have drawn wands.

"Hey, blockhead," I reply in greeting to Goyle. "S'matter? You get lost looking for the toilet again? Hint for you: this is a classroom. You can tell by the desks."

"Potter, shut up and listen for a second," orders Baddock. "We're not here to beat the magic out of you."

I growl. "Could have fooled me. Last I heard, _not_ beating me up didn't require four guys and drawn wands."

"Yeah, well," Baddock says, "you have a history. This is just a little insurance."

"A history?"

"Of disliking Slytherins," provides Urquhart from the door.

I grin, and have to restrain laughter as their hands tighten on their wands. "And that merits four of you?"

I can tell I'm unnerving them when Nott speaks, since he rarely says a word elsewise. "I would have preferred six," he says conversationally, "but it's hard to move about the castle with that many, and McGonagall is just looking for a reason to expel us again."

"Well, I'm honoured," I reply. "I think you're overestimating me, but I'd be happy to prove myself wrong–"

"We're not here to fight," Nott says.

Baddock nods in agreement. "We just want to talk. There doesn't have to be any violence."

"Are you sure? I do so love it, and I'm really quite good at it. In fact, Urquhart, if memory serves, didn't I kill your father about four months ago? 'Fraid I can't take credit for your dad, Nott–heard he offed himself that same night. How's your mum taking that, by the way?"

"Just listen, Potter," says Nott, likely to distract me from picking at that still-open wound. "Some of us have seen what you've been up to–"

"Hmm?" I feel the soft pulse of my Phoenix-feather wand in my right sleeve, and I feel the Elder wand in my left sleeve humming. The semi-sentient wand can sense upcoming battle, I've learned. It has startling intuition for that.

Nott nods. "I don't know what you think you're up to with Greengrass–"

I interrupt. "Do you know what I find intolerable?"

There is a long moment of silence before Baddock answers for the rest. "What's that?"

"Slytherins pointing wands at me."

I am very good at inspiring silence. Too good, in fact. I have to give them a push to continue. "So, anyway, Greengrass–?"

Nott looks a little shaken up, and so Goyle–showing remarkable prescience for a boy whose brain was put up for adoption at birth–takes over for him. "I saw you talkin' to her the other day."

"Is that a crime?"

"It could be," replies Baddock. "We know how much you hate Slytherins, Potter. Contrary to what you hear, we don't all hate you, but we do look out for own."

"And Greengrass is a Slytherin," adds Goyle.

"Well-spotted," I say to the latter.

"Which means you hate her," adds Goyle.

"Ah."

"That's why we think you'll do something to hurt her."

"Thank you kindly, Goyle. I would have been totally lost without that explanation."

Urquhart abandons his post and steps into the room. "So here's how it works, Potter. We'll make a deal: you stay away from Greengrass, and we'll leave you alone for the rest of the year."

"The entire year?"

"Yes."

"And I assume I'm supposed to smile and forget about the eight previous attempts on my life perpetrated by Slytherin house this year?"

"Eight?" says Nott, with a raised eyebrow.

"Well, there were a few where your house caught me with my pants down, both figuratively and literally," I reply. "I couldn't just let those ones get out. Anyway, that's the deal?"

"That's the deal," replies Goyle.

There are only so many jokes you can make about Goyle before he becomes so pathetic that it feels like clubbing a seal, or kicking a Hufflepuff. I don't even bother this time; instead, I go right for the ring-leader. "Nott, this your idea?"

"No," he admits. Nott doesn't lie, either, or if he does, he's so good at it that even I can't detect it with the limited passive Legilimency I know.

I shake my head. "Who thought of it?"

Urquhart raises his hand just slightly. "It was my idea."

"I'm impressed you have the courage to take responsibility."

Urquhart takes another step forward. "I'm not scared of you, Potter."

I just smile at the boy. "Am I hearing this right? What you're saying is that there's an easy way, and there's a hard way, and that you'd prefer to do this the easy way for both our sakes?"

He has to think for a second, but he nods.

"Okay," I say. "That sounds like a smart thing to me. Here's how it works, though. I want to know who knows what about me and Daphne. Now, there's an easy way and a hard way for me to get that information from you four." I pull out that manic grin that I know unnerves them all. "Unlike you, though, I don't really care which way I get the information. So what is it? Are you going to tell me what I want to know?"

Nott's eyes darken. "Urquhart, door."

Urquhart doesn't move, though. "Are you threatening us, Potter? Your wand is inside your robe. I think that's a pretty bad idea."

"No," I reply.

Urquhart's face shows just a hint of relief, but Nott sees the movement in my sleeves, and is in motion himself.

Unfortunately, he is not fast enough to prevent the grips of both wands smacking into my palms. My right hand has two minor hexes off before my left even begins casting, but none of the Slytherins are even in dueling position. The elder wand flashes, and the door to the room slams shut and hermetically seals itself. I have another two hexes off, both aimed at Nott, while my other wand spits out an Expanding Sound Inversion Charm.

Nott blocks both, and flicks his own wand. Red light–a Stunner, obviously–shoots right at me. Nott's aim is true, but I am moving now, and have closed the distance between Goyle and myself. I hit him point-blank with a low-powered Bludgeoning Hex, and his nose breaks with a sickening _crunch_. He falls over, bleeding heavily, and I Stun him behind my back with the Elder Wand, all the while turning to keep Nott and Urquhart in my vision.

I trade a flurry of spells with the remaining three Slytherins. Baddock has managed to get behind me, so I am shielding with my left hand and hexing with my right. In truth, it is not an even match-up, but I am very angry at the temerity of these Slytherins, and have resolved to punish them.

It takes a few more minutes of hexing and shielding before we reach a temporary standstill.

"Come on, Potter!" yells Baddock. "It didn't have to be like this!"

"I told you," I reply, "I can't tolerate a Slytherin holding me at wand-point. You're right; it didn't have to be like this at all, but you four couldn't take a hint."

"Not all Slytherins are evil!" Baddock shoots back.

I quirk my head to the side. "You're right, of course. Some Slytherins are idiots. Hard to be evil when you're that dumb." To punctuate my point, I kick Goyle's slumped body in the ribs.

Baddock just shakes his head. "Potter, what's it going to take for you to stop this?"

"Just put down your wand, Malcolm," I say. "That's all I ask. Just a little respect."

Baddock seems to seriously consider it. Nott is furiously shaking his head at the boy, to warn him off, to tell him not to trust me–

But Baddock is younger, and does not understand the animosity between our houses. He drops his wand to the floor. "There. Now can we just talk like civil–"

He is blasted off his feet by my Stunner, and hits the wall behind him with a dull _thud_.

"He was right," I say to Nott and Urquhart. "There are some good Slytherins out there: dead ones."

"Dylan," says Nott quietly, "try and get the door open, or take down that Silencing Charm or whatever it was he put up."

Urquhart nods, and begins muttering under his breath, casting incantations and diagnostics.

I laugh. "What? Come on, Nott. Silencing Charms aren't area-based. They'd never work to keep sound from escaping the whole classroom, just from your mouths."

Nott is silent. He is in a perfect dueling stance, and it shows just how familiar he is with the art. I also can't help but note that he is quite a talented duelist–certainly more talented than Ron, and miles better than Hermione, who, bless her soul, barely remembers to hold her wand in a fight. I am finding Nott intriguing, now–not in the same way as I see Daphne, of course–but I begin to wonder what it would have been like to wind up in Slytherin. Would Nott have been my best friend, my natural second? Would he have gone against his father and helped me?

I pay for my lack of concentration. Urquhart succeeds in unsealing the door. Since the room is no longer air-tight there is a sucking sound accompanied by a breeze as the air rushes in the cracks of the door to restore equilibrium.

"Idiot!" I exclaim when I've realized what Urquhart has done. It is not directed at him, but at myself. My concentration is just abysmal. Before Urquhart can open the door, I have another Canning Charm applied to it, and my left wand has a twenty-foot long whip of fire that flicks toward Urquhart. It catches him across the arm, and he cries out in pain and darts back away from the door.

"Think of what you're doing, Potter," warns Nott. "This could get you expelled."

"I don't think so. It's your word against mine, Nott. On the one hand, Theodore Nott, silent and unfriendly, the son of a convicted Death Eater so disgraced that he had to off himself… and on the other hand, Harry Potter, lonely but talented, skewered by the press but so brave, Head Boy, the Boy-Who-Lived, the Vanquisher of Voldemort. Who would believe you?

Nott's jaw sets, and he casts his first curse so quickly the motion is almost untraceable. It spatters harmlessly off my shield, but his second penetrates, and just misses my shoulder as I roll out of the way.

I flick my own wand in response, and hiss a curse. "Vexo!" I only say it aloud to distract Nott and Urquhart. The elder wand is in motion, and in between blocking hexes and curses from the latter, it animates about ten desks. Upon a wave, all of them gallop toward Urquhart and crash into him, knocking him down. The desks pile on top of him, and their weight keeps him pinned down long enough for me to hit him with an 'Expelliarmus!' and a 'Stupefy!'

It is just me and Nott, and I have no intentions of being so gentle on the boy as I have been for his three compatriots. Unlike Nott, the other three were born nasty. Nott is intelligent, and should know better. He could have been a kind, decent person, had he been put into another house, but he _chose_ to be evil by not refusing the Sorting Hat's choice. He is the worst type of Slytherin, and I plan to treat him as such.

Nott fires off a Blood-Boiler, but his aim is off by a few inches, and I don't even have to dodge.

In return, I fire a blue beam at him that will shatter bones if it hits.

He recognizes that, and casts a shield to block it, just after he retaliates with a curse I don't know.

Just at the last second, the curse splits into three, and jets off in different directions. I have never seen something like this before, and so I do not instinctively dodge. The jets hit me in the shin, the shoulder, and the chin, and it opens up deep gashes. I gasp in pain, but I also count my lucky stars that the one that hit me in the chin was not two inches lower. By the time I have healed all three, Nott has pressed his advantage for better position, and is right next to the door. He once again unseals it.

I cannot let him escape.

"_Crucio!_"

The Unforgivable hits Nott in the back, just as he is turning to open the door. He collapses to the ground. His limbs draw foetally inward to his chest, and he shrieks in agony for the seven full seconds that I hold him under under it.

The Cruciatus Curse is a very interesting curse. There is no equivalent in the Muggle World to the pain that it causes. Probably the closest would be immolation, I imagine. I say it's interesting, though, because it becomes exponentially more effective the longer a burst you apply. At its lowest dosage of one second–if I can call it that–it hurts so bad, but it is over, and you are okay. At four seconds, you feel phantom pain for a day afterward. Seven seconds is the first threshold, really. Any longer than that, and you risk that phantom pain becoming permanent. I've been subjected to the Cruciatus several times, now, but no longer than twelve seconds at a time, and my pain tolerance is pretty strong. Still, my knee aches every time the weather changes, and I find it hard to sleep at night.

At twelve seconds–though, for some, it can be as high as seventeen or eighteen seconds–a person loses all bodily control. That is the point of incapacitation. If you ever have to keep someone down for a fight, cast the Cruciatus until you smell them. There is no chance that they will hold a wand for another hour, at the earliest. At twenty-two seconds comes unconsciousness. Twenty-six seconds of exposure is fatal.

Yes, the Cruciatus Curse is fatal. What about Neville's parents, you ask? Aurors. Trained to resist torture. They never gave in; they never gave up.

Nott is not trained to resist torture. It is obvious by the way he is whimpering on the ground. He is feeling the after-glow of the Cruciatus. He will talk easily.

I kneel by his side, and pick his wand up off the floor. "How are you feeling, Nott?"

Nott doesn't say anything. He stares up at the ceiling instead.

"That's not very polite of you," I say to him. "Would it kill you to respond politely?"

He gives me a deeply sardonic look. I laugh, understanding at once. "Oh, Merlin. You really think–"

"That you're going to kill me?" he responds, finally. "I wish you'd just do it already."

"I'm not going to kill you," I respond. "Once I'm satisfied that you've answered my questions truthfully, I'll let you go."

"I'll never keep quiet about this, Potter," replies Nott. "You're going to kill me, I know it, so just... get it over with, all right?"

I am forced to reiterate myself. "I'm not going to kill you. Answer my questions, please. Was Urquhart lying when he said that he thought of this operation?"

"Fuck you."

"I prefer women, thank you. Was Urquhart lying?"

Nott lays silent again. He seems more tired than I've ever seen him. His eyes have deep bags underneath them.

I think for a second. "You know, Nott, this could be easy, or this could be hard. I lied. I do prefer the easy way, since it involves less screaming. I've always hated screaming, you know."

Nott spits on my face.

I must not show my anger. Lesson number one of torture is that your captive must believe he is more desperate than you are. Nott knows that he has to last almost six hours before we are noticed missing. I can bring him to the brink of insanity and back in twenty-two seconds.

The odds are not in his favour, but he really thinks that he is going to die. He has resigned himself to it–I can see it in his eyes. He is trying to provoke me, to force him past twenty-two seconds so that he loses consciousness, and, even blissfully, perhaps, dies.

What Nott does not know is that I was trained in its use by exposure to it. I understand his same hope, and I know how to crush it.

The Cruciatus Curse is not cumulative. That is to say, you could cast it on me for ten seconds, three times, and I would not be any closer to dying than I was before I met you. Repeated exposure is stronger, more traumatic, because you begin to anticipate the pain.

What Nott does not know is that I want there to be no signs that he was tortured. That means nothing beyond seven seconds.

"Crucio!"

Nott stiffens like a board and opens his mouth to scream. Before he can get it out, the Curse has ended, and he is fine.

"Crucio!"

This time he screams, but it is over again in a blink of an eye.

I wait five seconds longer before casting the curse on him again. We repeat this cycle three more times.

"Had enough?" I ask.

Nott nods; he is done. As I say, the Cruciatus is pain beyond belief. It cracks only but the best, and it physically breaks the rest. He will volunteer anything now.

"Urquhart–liar?"

Nott shakes his head. "His idea," he croaks.

"Who else knows I've been seen around with Greengrass?"

"Everyone in Slytherin–"

"_Crucio!_"

Nott writhes for three seconds.

"Going to lie to me again? I'm sure you know that I can tell when you do that."

"N–no."

"No... what?"

"No more lies."

"Good. Who else knows?"

"Nobody." Bing. That is the truth. "I saw you and Greengrass the other day. I told Urquhart, since I know he has a crush on her. Nobody else knows. Urquhart keeps up on who likes her. Tries to keep her out of other boys' arms."

Hmm. "Does Daphne know that you know?"

"No."

"Does anyone know that you were sneaking out tonight?"

"No."

I smile. "See? Wasn't that easy?"

"Kill me."

What a brave boy. "Do you remember Lockhart?" I ask him. At his nod, I continue. "Well, do you remember how he used to say that I was trying to imitate him, that I just wanted to use my fame, as well? Do you remember how you and Malfoy used to laugh it up over that, how you used to say that I was just like him?"

Nott nods slowly.

"Well, as it turns out, I'm pretty much nothing like him," I reply, "except in one regard. We both have an affinity for Memory Charms."

Nott understands, now, but he slumps unconscious from my Stunner before he can say anything.

* * *

By the time I had confirmed what Nott has said (it only took the threat of cursing Urquhart to get him to confirm the truth), and by the time I had Obliviated all four and sent them back to the Common Room, it was three in the morning. It took another fifteen minutes to set the room to rights. By the time I had made it back to my room, I was too exhausted to sleep, so I popped a Dreamless Sleep Potion, and said good-bye to the world for eight solid hours.

I was asleep for breakfast, but I heard from Hermione at lunch that the entrance of the four Slytherin boys had caused quite a stir. Their cover story for the bruises they sported went like this: Nott and Goyle had gotten into a stupid fight over a girl (Ginny Weasley, to be exact; I hoped the slut would appreciate the attention). Baddock and Urquhart had tried to stop the fight, but the three boys were no match for ol' Beanbrain.

At lunch, I also slipped Daphne a note. More precisely, I transfigured it under the table to a jay–blue like her eyes–and cast a Notice-Me-Not charm on it. The only one who ever saw it was Daphne, and that was because it began to chirrup quietly once it had landed on her shoulder.

The note was fairly simple. It read, "Nine tonight. The western corner of the Restricted Section."

We weren't technically allowed in the Restricted Section, but Pince had retired (or been fired or killed, I'm not sure) the year previous, and instead of replacing her, they gave the job of restocking the Library to an interested Ravenclaw fifth-year. That meant there was no deterrent whatsoever, and so the restricted section was visited a lot more frequently, especially by the upper years. However, it was a Hogsmeade Saturday with an extended curfew, so I was gambling on it to be abandoned.

I spent a quiet day reading, though I did make a twenty-minute jaunt out to Hogsmeade for some chocolate and flowers. I could have gotten the former from the Kitchens, and could have conjured the latter, but Honeydukes makes the best chocolate I've ever tasted, and conjured flowers die twice as fast as real ones. I couldn't have flowers for my girlfriend dying on me like that, so I bought real Carnations–Daphne's favourite–and put preservation charms on them.

Armed with the tools of seduction, I gave my hair one last futile comb-through, put on my nicest clothes, and left the Common Room under my Invisibility Cloak at a quarter to nine.

I couldn't help but feel that my life was going to change that evening. I grinned at the thought.

* * *

Daphne is sitting at the table there when I arrive. Her hair is nicely combed flat, and she is wearing a black dress that shows off a mouthwatering amount of cleavage. Though I am tempted to stop and enjoy the scenery, I must be punctual, so I step around a bookshelf and remove my cloak, then return to the table.

"Evening, Daph," I say with a smile. "You look… enchantingly beautiful. That dress is very becoming."

"Thanks, Potter," she replies. "No dropping in from the ceiling this time?"

"Disappointed?"

She offers a wry grin. It's the most emotion I've seen out of Daphne yet, and my heart leaps just a little in response. "Just a bit," she says. "I won't deny it was frightening, but I have been wondering how you were going to upstage yourself."

I throw up my arms in pseudo-frustration. "And here I am, thinking I'm being nice..."

"I appreciate it."

That single comment stops me cold in my tracks. I raise an eyebrow. "Who are you, and what have you done with Daphne Greengrass?"

"I'm Daphne, I swear," she replies. "Since I'm stuck here, going on a date with you, I'm just trying to enjoy myself."

I pull my wand. "Okay, seriously–where is Daphne? The real Daphne would never enjoy herself on a date with me."

Daphne sighs, and reaches out with her hand. It rests on top of my wand hand, and slowly eases it down onto the table. "Don't think I really want to be here, Potter, but I'm a woman of my word, so I'm not going to cancel this. Rather than suffer, I'm also going to try to have a good time, but that depends on you."

I'm still skeptical. This doesn't seem like Daphne, but if it is, I am screwing my only chance up royally. I will play along for now. "Right, then," I say, "Sorry about that. You just surprised me, that's all."

Daphne grins. "Revenge for the whole ceiling thing, Potter."

"Well, it wasn't right of me to leap to conclusions. Let me make it up to you–" Here, I pull the invisibility cloak off the wrapped bouquet.

Daphne looks at me distrustingly. "Flowers, Potter? On a first date?"

"I'm a gentleman, Greengrass," I reply.

She opens them, and gasps. "Well, you do your homework, that's for sure," she says with a smile, as she pulls the arrangement of Carnations. The Carnations are bright red, and are filled out with some Ferns and Baby's Breath, and–to Daphne's amusement, and to my great joy–a single blade of wild, green grass.

Daphne takes a deep breath in of them, and her head turns so quickly I'm surprised she doesn't hurt herself. "Potter, these flowers smell."

I turn red at my error. "Really? They were just fine when I put them together this afternoon–"

"No, I mean they _smell!_" she replies. "They're not conjured!"

"Oh," I reply, and I smile. "Only the best–"

"You charmer," she says with a coy smile. "How did you know which ones–?"

I grin. Let no one ever say that Urquhart is a total moron. "That's for me to know," I reply teasingly. "Though I did run into some Asters while I was picking those–"

Daphne frowns. "Well, maybe you didn't do your homework so well."

I shake my head. "I know you hate them."

She raises an eyebrow. "Then why would you even–"

"I lit them on fire for you," I reply. "I burned down the entire patch of them."

Daphne's eyes are become sex.

"And there's more, too. I know it's not _that time_," I say delicately, and I hand her the box, "but I hear that all women love chocolate, without exception. Sweets for the sweet, and all that rot."

"An assumption, but a wise one," she says. "You're a pretty clever guy, Potter, to butter me up with gifts–and these are some pretty smart gifts."

"You like them both?" I ask hopefully.

"Of course," she replies.

When I hear this, my first emotion is of shock–I am surprised my heart is not visible through my shirt. "I can't tell you how pleased I am to hear that," I respond.

"You make mine look like trash," she says, "but I do have a gift for you, too."

"Yeah?" I say, with a bit of surprise. I was not expecting her

"Yeah," she says, and she leans over and kisses me on the cheek.

This date, so far, has been comprised almost entirely of shock. I think I am about to die of it.

"Potter?" she asks, after a few seconds where I am frozen. "Potter, are you okay?"

"I–I think so," I say. "I wasn't expecting that."

She laughs. "Well, don't read too much into it. I said one date, and I mean it–just one date."

"No 'unless I fall in love with you' qualifier in there?"

"It won't happen," she says, calmly. "And there are other reasons, too, Potter. You know what sort of family I come from."

"What makes you so sure it won't happen?"

"I'm just not the sort to fall in love easily."

"Nor am I," I say. "I crush pretty easily, yeah, but I've never fallen in love before. Not before now."

"Potter," she says, and I turn my head, since the tone of her voice has changed, somehow. "I really wanted to know when I asked last time. Why do you think you're in love with me?"

"Honestly?" I ask. She nods her head, and I continue. "I don't know. What I do know is that I've never felt this way before about anyone. Not about Ginny, that's for sure–"

"Not even for Hannah Abbott?" Daphne interrupts with a grin.

"Well, she made me feel _good_, if you know what I mean," I reply. "But, no. What I feel for you is so totally different from any way I've ever felt before, and I never want to stop feeling it."

"Oh." She is silent for a moment. "Potter, it's only fair that you know that I don't feel that way about you."

"Well, I didn't come into this feeling all at once, myself," I reply. "It took months of hearing about you, seeing you around, and watching you for it to get to the point where I was interested enough to work up the courage to approach you." I pause for a second to scratch my chin. I realize after a second that I am scratching the spot where Nott cursed me. "When I first talked to you, that was when I knew I was in love with you."

"But how?" She presses me.

"I just had to come back for more. I couldn't imagine not being able to talk to you again."

Daphne raises an eyebrow. "That's your criterion for being in love?"

"Well, it's part of it. When I was with Ginny, I felt like there was a monster in my chest that would rear every time she was near me–"

"I'll bet with Hannah, you actually had a monster in your _pants_ that reared every time she was near you."

I stick my tongue out at her. "Wouldn't _you_ just like to know what's in my pants?"

She rolls her eyes. "Go on, Potter."

"Anyway, Ginny–monster. This feeling I have for you is totally different. It's a bit like I'm drunk, I suppose–"

"How flattering."

"Shush for a second, Daphne. It feels like I'm just a little off kilter, like every time I look at you, I feel just a little dizzy. It's like I want to talk to you all the time, and to laugh with you, and to eat and drink and bathe and–"

"–and just hold me, huh, and always be with me?" she asks.

"Yeah," I finish.

"I know the feeling," she says softly. "I felt it for someone else a long time ago."

"Who for?" I ask, aware that it is a very personal question. "I mean, you don't have to respond if you don't want to, but I'm really curious to know more about you, and I'd like to know who the lucky guy was–"

"He?" she asks. "He? No, Potter. She. Jaime Zabini, Blaise's older half-sister."

That was a conversation stopper.

"Are you–?" I am trying to say this tactfully. I am not succeeding. My heart is sinking.

"Like Bones and MacAvoy?" she asks. "No. I don't think so, anyway. I've been with a couple of the older boys–Diggory, before he was offed–and I enjoyed myself plenty, thanks."

So Zabini was wrong; he wasn't her first. "I don't mean–"

"I'm not angry at you for asking, Potter," she explains. "I'm just not sure I understand it myself. I hope you don't think less of me for liking a girl, or for having been with somebody already."

"Hardly," I reply. "The latter I'm glad for–I happen to think that whole 'saving yourself for marriage' bit is rot. Hell, I've been with Hannah, and that's no secret to anybody in the school–"

"–Well, getting caught fucking in the Astronomy Tower by Flitwick was maybe not the best way to keep it quiet–"

"–but," I continue, "the former, I don't have anything against. Just not had much exposure to that sort of thing, you know?"

There is a moment of silence, but it is not uncomfortable. Daphne looks a little sadder than she had before. I resist the urge, but I am so tempted to reach out and hug her.

"It wasn't really something I had wanted to fall into–"

I interrupt her. "You don't have to justify it to me, Daphne. Don't rationalize away feelings."

She is silent for a very long time. I try to make some small talk, but am rebuffed each time I try. I am tempted to call it a day.

Finally, Daphne looks at me. "Potter, do you mean it? I don't have to justify myself to you?"

"Why would you ever have to?" I ask. "I was the one who begged you out on a date. It's not my place to interrogate you."

She blinks. "Will you judge me based on what I say?"

"Yes," I reply. "Of course I will. Anyone who says that they won't judge is a liar or delusional."

Daphne is silent again. "You're a good listener, Potter. If I share something with you–?"

"I won't share with anyone else, if that's what you're asking." Just what is so damning about her relationship with Jaime Zabini?

She takes a deep breath. "I don't know what possesses me to tell you this, Potter, but I was abused by my father. Still am."

That brings me up short. _That_ is one hell of a secret. Her questions make sense now. "Like–?"

She snorts. "Yeah. Like."

I open my mouth, but I have no words. "I'm so sorry," I finally manage. "Is there anything–?"

"Just listen," she says, not as a command, but as a response. "I hope you appreciate why you cannot tell anyone about this?"

"Of course!" I reply. I may be dim, but even I know that in the Pureblood world, honour killing is still occasionally practiced. If it is one things that the inbreeds ironically abhor, it is incest. It's grounds for the Dementor's Kiss for both parties. That Daphne wasn't a willing participant wouldn't cross their minds in the slightest. "I wouldn't tell anyone anything that you said to me in confidence."

"I still don't know why I'm telling you this," she replies, and she smacks her fist onto the table. "I should just shut up and not–"

"No," I say, and I reach my hand out and rest it on top of hers, in what I hope is taken as a gesture of comfort. "I'm here to listen for you."

She looks at me, and those blue eyes of hers burn into me.

"Start with something easier," I suggest. "You and Jaime Zabini–how'd that happen?"

That works like a charm. Daphne's eyes brighten, and she begins to speak with animation. "Well, when we first came, I was really scared, you know, but I was hoping that I could learn something that would help me kill my father without being traceable back to me."

I am slightly taken back by her casual reference to murder. "Did you ever try to kill him?"

"Oh, yes," she says, "many times. He has, so far, escaped death, but I haven't given up hope. I'll return this year with a better, more undetectable poison, and with more spells to tidy everything up if I do actually succeed to kill him. But quit distracting me."

"Sorry," I reply.

"Anyway, Jaime," continues Daphne, "was the Head Girl that year."

"Oh!" I exclaim. "I remember her now. About yea tall? Tanned-looking skin? Dark-ish hair?"

"Like Blaise if he was a girl."

"Yeah," I reply, but I pause for a second. "That's a disconcerting thought. Zabini would be a very hot girl."

Daphne laughs. "Don't ever let him catch you saying that. He's more defensive of his masculinity than anyone I know."

"I try not to speak to Zabini on principle," I reply. "I don't much care for Slytherins."

"Could have fooled me."

"You excepted, of course," I add. "I don't think of you as a Slytherin."

Daphne sticks her tongue out at me. "Now what was I saying about interrupting me?" she asks. "Anyway, Jaime Zabini was just awesome. She was really the first person that had been kind to me, and it didn't take her long to figure out why I was so timid." Daphne smiles distantly, as she remembers something that had happened eight years ago. "She demanded that I go straight to Pomfrey, and when I refused, she marched me there herself."

"Wasn't that risky?"

Daphne waves her hand from side-to-side. "Jaime knew that Pomfrey had treated some other Slytherins who had been abused, too, so she trusted her. It wasn't like I really went willingly, but at that point, I was convinced I was head-over-heels in love with Jaime, and I did it because she told me to."

I nod. "And what of Jaime?"

"What ever else?" asks Daphne. "Do you know what sometimes happens to children who've been sexually abused, Harry? They have to mature faster, and the sexual awakening that happens later with most children–"

"–happens earlier," I say, and finish for her. "My shrink gave me some reading material on abused children. I'm familiar with the notion."

Daphne raises an eyebrow. "You saw a shrink?"

"You think that having to defeat Voldemort at seventeen wasn't traumatizing enough to warrant one?"

"No, no," clarifies Daphne. "It just strikes me as odd that you were reading about abused children–"

"My home life wasn't as rosy as people like Malfoy made it out to be," I say.

"Were you–?"

"No," I reply, and turn my head away. "Not in that way. Enough, though, to have some lingering issues, and enough to feel nothing but compassion for you."

Daphne's hand now rests on mine. It is clear enough that I don't want to talk about the subject, and she is particularly adept at picking up non-audial hints. "Anyway, I got to Hogwarts, and I couldn't help but be curious about sex. And, of course, along comes Jaime Zabini, and she was the first real friend I'd ever had. I convinced myself that I was utterly in love."

"And how'd that go?"

"She was gentle," replies Daphne. "She had reservations at the start, you know. She didn't think it was appropriate for a seventh year and a first year to do things like that. I'm not sure why she softened, but she let me explore my sexuality without being pushy or ever pretending once that it was wrong for me to have these desires." Daphne pauses. "I still love her, Potter. If she were still around, I would be in her arms in a flash. That's why it's not possible for me to love you."

"Where is she?" I ask. I am secretly glad that Jaime Zabini is not in Daphne's life anymore.

"Blaise's mother killed her," says Daphne. "She stood in the way of more inheritance."

How do I respond to that? "I'm sorry–"

"Don't be," replies Daphne. "I know, now, that I shouldn't have fallen in love with her. She was my protector, and it was only natural that I would be attracted to her. I'm trying to move on, but there's other shit in my life that's more important than grieving right now."

"Like offing your dad."

"Father," Daphne corrects. "He's not my dad; he's my father. It may seem like a stupid distinction–"

"–but stupid distinctions are important," I agree. "I know what you mean. I don't think of my uncle as my uncle. I might have to call him 'Uncle Vernon', but I think of him as just 'Vernon'."

"–or 'that big smelly oaf'," adds Daphne, with a half-smile. I practically swoon.

"I prefer 'ruddy great Muggle', actually," I say, and I return the smile. "So, do you want help?"

"Offing my father? Sure," agrees Daphne. "Except for the fact that it has to look like an accident. It would be easier for me to just get out of the house, but that's only half of what has to be done; he still beats my mum."

"Sounds like he's a nasty piece of work," I say, hoping I'm not overstepping my boundaries.

She nods. "Oh, he is, Harry. Don't you ever forget that you can be evil without being a Death Eater."

I'm about to respond in the affirmative, when my brain catches up with me, and I am forced to stop. "You just called me Harry."

Daphne pauses for a second, too. "So I did."

"It was nice," I say.

"So it was," she replies.

"You should do it again," I urge.

"Don't push your luck."

There is a long moment of silence. I am unsure of what to say next; Daphne looks equally uncomfortable. She fiddles with her flowers a bit, and sniffs them again.

That gives me something to say. "They'll never die, you know," I reply. "They're under an Evergreen Charm."

"Really?" she asks. "I'd really rather you remove it."

"Why, though? Don't you like them?"

Daphne smiles at me. "Oh, I love them. They're the first flowers a man has ever given me," she adds. "It's just that, for everything, there is a season, and a time for every purpose under the sun."

I raise an eyebrow. "You never struck me as Christian–"

"You don't have to be to borrow some of their more poetic thoughts, do you? Anyway, permanence is stuffy. Can you imagine if we were stuck where we are our whole lives? Hogwarts would grow old. I'd be living in eternal fear of going back home. God knows what you'd be up to–you'd probably still be stalking me."

I speak up because her words disturb me. "Okay, for starters, I was _not_ stalking you. I was being persistent."

"Difference?" she asks, though she doesn't seem upset.

I choose to believe that question is rhetorical. "Second, those flowers are a token of my love for you. Even if you don't want to keep them, they're not the sort of thing that ought to be handled lightly!"

Daphne rolls her eyes. "Relax, Potter. You're practically hyperventilating. I know you think this is important, but I hear you. I believe you. You're in love with me. I recognize the feeling entirely. Do you really need me to keep some flowers around forever to commemmorate that?"

I try to respond, but Daphne just steamrolls right over me.

"Besides, I don't want them if they're forever-flowers. Then they cease being beautiful in their own right and just become decoration, to be moved around from place to place. They're beautiful because you thought so kindly of me this one day, and I'll appreciate them all the more because they'll only be with me for a few days."

"You really know it? You know how much I feel for you?"

There is that characteristic Greengrass smirk again. "Brain just now catching up?"

"Shush, Daphne. Let me enjoy my moment."

She's quiet, and just pats my hand.

I have made such astounding steps forward today with Daphne. Yet I feel like I have only seen the very tip of the iceberg. I always appreciated it about her, but Daphne is so much more sophisticated, so much more complicated than Ginny was. Only now, I see why that is, and what Daphne has paid for that. All the joy in my progress has been tempered by this incredible sadness that I see, has been coloured by the empathy that I have for her.

"Some date this has been, huh?" I say.

"Some date," says Daphne, but she doesn't seem disappointed. Instead, she seems surprisingly happy. "You know, Potter, you're not too bad. I might not ever fall in love with you, but you're a half-decent guy."

"Thanks," I say, and to try and regain some measure of coolness. "The night's young yet, though. Give me a couple more hours to work the Harry Potter magic."

"You should try dropping in from the ceiling again. I hear that went over real well last time."

Goodbye, coolness.

* * *

We are still talking in the library much later. Daphne has not only spoken at length about her father, but about her family, and she has gotten me to speak at length about mine, too. She laughs when I tell her about Dudley's tail. I grin, and I just about die then and there to see her happy again.

"I really thought that he was going to turn out decent, after fifth year," I say, as I conclude the story about Umbridge's Dementors. "But no, turns out he was just looking for someone to help him keep up his pot business. He thought that having me around would help give him an edge over the other dealers in the neighbourhood."

"Sounds like a real piece of work," replies Daphne, parroting my earlier line.

"He is, but he's the closest I ever had to a brother." I shake my head. "Can't say that I ever wanted one after him. Siblings, huh?"

I can tell I've missed my mark when Daphne just looks confused.

"You don't hate your sister Astoria?" I ask.

"'Storie? What ever gave you the idea that I hate her?"

"Just..." I suddenly am figuratively undressed, and it is so very uncomfortable. "Something I overhear, I guess."

Daphne frowns. "'Storie makes excuses for my father. She still thinks that he'll be all right, that he'll stop raping the both of us, if only she can get him into therapy. I yell at her for that all the time, but make no mistake, Potter: I love my sister with all my taped-together heart."

"But you had her engaged to Malfoy–!"

Daphne's frown turns into a look of shock. "How did you hear about that?"

"I thought it was common knowledge!"

"It damn well shouldn't be!"

I'm silent. I have no desire to force her answer. If she has something to say, she will say it. I am not disappointed.

"It's true, though," she says with a sigh. "How much do you know about what went on last year?"

I shrug my shoulders. "Not much. Mostly what Ginny told me."

Daphne snorts. "That tart wouldn't've told you anything, since she spent the most of it in Longbottom's bed."

"This is something that I am finding out more and more," I reply. "I'm not even surprised, to tell the truth."

"Well," replies Daphne, "she did say that you'd broken up."

"Symbolically!" I say. "And even if she did take the break up literally, she still held me to it! The one letter she sent to me all year–'Dear Harry, I miss you. I can't wait to kiss you and hold you in my arms. Love, your girlfriend, Ginny.'"

Daphne giggles. It is a sound that seems utterly foreign coming from her. "Well, you got what you paid for, Potter," she replies. "I mean, I'm not one to heap scorn on proclivity, but seriously, Ginny Weasley?"

"I was young and naive," I reply. "At the time, she seemed like the best choice?"

Daphne scoffs. "When Granger would have blown you any time your entire fifth year?"

"What?"

"Oh, come on," says Daphne. "You can't tell me you didn't notice, Potter. Even you aren't that oblivious!"

"I can't believe you're saying that about Hermione!" I exclaim. "She's one of the most innocent–"

"Potter, she ate a banana in front of you every morning!"

"She likes bananas!" I reply hotly.

Daphne presses her tongue into her cheek repeatedly. It is exactly the motion that Hermione uses when she eats bananas in front of me–to this very day. She did it at lunch.

I am sure that I am pale as a ghost. "I don't believe it," I say. "Sweet, _innocent_ little Hermione?"

Daphne gives a snort of contempt. "Males! Always assuming their precious sweethearts are so innocent. I'll have you know, Potter, that Granger lost her virginity in fourth year. You didn't think she and Viktor were just holding hands, did you? Because there was a lot more holding going on there than just that, if you catch my drift."

Poor Ron. He will never know, because I will never tell another living soul about this conversation.

Daphne continues. "She and the Weaslette fought like mad for you, our fifth year. Hell, Granger even broke you and Chang up–"

"What? Now, that's just ludicrous–"

"Scheduling an interview over top of your date? Potter, are you daft? When has Granger ever done anything that wasn't scripted?"

I cannot think of a time. Hermione is a meticulous planner. How come I've never thought of this before?

"–and off you go running into Weasley's arms. I ought to thank you for that, actually," says Daphne. "I met Granger in the Prefect's bathroom in sixth year. She was so sexually desperate she would have fucked Snape, and you'd _just_ shacked up with Weasley. Well, I was a lot prettier than Snape, so–"

"Congratulations," I say, though I still feel a little queasy. "Have a fun time?"

"Quite," says Daphne. "Did you know that Granger waxes?"

"Waxes? Like–down _there_?"

Daphne laughs as I wince at the thought. "You really are so naive, Potter. I wish you'd been my friend long before this."

"I can't believe I missed out on so much of this."

"Well, you didn't miss too much," says Daphne. "At least Weasley put out for you–"

I just look at Daphne with a blank expression.

Daphne whistles in appreciation. "I can't believe you missed out on so much. So Abbott was your first?"

I nod. "Crazy, wild sex. Best time of my life to date. I haven't felt that carefree ever before."

"I'm not surprised," says Daphne.

"Who was your first–I mean, besides Jaime Zabini?" I ask.

Daphne just looks at me, and all of a sudden, I realise what a monumental blunder I have committed.

"Oh, Merlin, Daphne," I say. "I'm sorry. That was... beyond insensitive of me."

"It's okay," she says soothingly. "I understood what you meant. I was just thinking of whether I wanted to tell you or not."

"If it's too personal–"

"Potter, I've told you already that my father rapes me. I don't think we need to worry about personal right now. It's more about protecting the boy's identity. In answer to your question, though, my first was Theo in second year."

"Nott?" I ask. "How was it?"

"Pretty awful."

"I'm not surprised."

"Not because of Nott, Potter," corrects Daphne. "First-time sex is always miserable."

I blink. "It wasn't terrible at all for me. Hannah was fantastic in bed."

"Okay," amends Daphne, "first-time sex is always terrible for the woman. Any woman who says otherwise is lying. It takes a few times for you boys to get the rhythm down, and for us to adjust to yours."

"It's gotten better for you?" I ask.

"Of course," she replies. "Sometimes, I even enjoy it."

"Sometimes?" I ask.

Daphne nods. "Well, I do have some rather traumatic associations with it."

"Right," I say. "I can imagine how those would get in the way of enjoying yourself."

Daphne grins. "I can't believe you didn't know about Granger–"

"Deck the halls with boughs of holly!" I sing loudly as I cover my ears. "'Tis the season–"

Daphne reaches up and pulls on my arms. I let her pull them down. She is laughing. I have never seen a more beautiful sight. (I am secretly holding out hope that I might watch the next Hermione/Daphne session, though. I think that would top the charts.)

"So, Weasley, huh?" asks Daphne after a second. "She didn't put out. That surprises me."

"It surprises me, too, now that I've heard everyone she's slept with. Hell, it wouldn't surprise me if she had slept with Draco Bloody Malfoy–"

Daphne coughs and sputters for a second, and she turns a deep shade of red. "Weasley and Malfoy? Yeah. No. Not a chance. Not her."

I sense that something is going on here. "What aren't you telling me, Daph?"

Daphne turns her head. "Not Weasley. Me, though."

"You?!"

Daphne nods. "I regret it deeply," she says, and I don't need passive Legilimency to know she has never said anything more truthful in her life. "In fact, that brings me back to what I was saying earlier. What do you know of what happened last year?"

"Next to nothing," I reply, "and if you're right that Ginny was with Neville, then what I know probably isn't accurate anyway."

"It was... not a fun year," replies Daphne. "Not even for the children of Death Eaters. The Death Eaters had their way with anyone they wanted to. Not me, fortunately, but 'Storie kept getting pawed up by Amycus Carrow. Nothing serious, mind you, but enough that I want nothing more than to kill the bastard."

"I'm sorry you'll never get the pleasure," I reply.

"Hmm?" Daphne looks up at me in surprise. "What do you mean? Isn't he in Azkaban?"

I shake my head. "I hit him with a Cruciatus curse during the Assault, and McGonagall Stunned him, but he escaped while we were fighting."

"What?" exclaims Daphne. "You mean he's loose right now–?!"

"No," I reply, and pause for a long second. "I'm not stripping for you, so don't freak out, okay?" But I am, just a little. I unbutton my shirt, and pull it off. Daphne looks at me, and I see in her for the first time the stirrings of attraction. Yet it is my back that I want her to see, and so I turn around.

She whistles. That is usually the first reaction that I get when people see my tattoo. It is a giant, flaming, angry Phoenix, with seven black feathers. That number means more to me than just Horcruxes, now. It is the number of people I killed that night, after I killed Voldemort.

"From left to right," I say, "are Antonin Dolohov, who killed Remus Lupin, and was beaten by Flitwick, though I lopped his head off so the bastard couldn't escape from Azkaban again; Alecto and Amycus Carrow, tortured to death with the Cruciatus Curse, in revenge for what they had done to the students of Hogwarts; Rabastan and Rodolphus Lestrange, who died in place of Bellatrix, both by immolation; John Avery, whose neck I sliced with a Hex; and Rupert Urquhart, who was an accident, really, but I kind of knocked him off the seventh floor."

Daphne is silent for a minute. I can feel her hand trace over the second and third feathers, and I shiver slightly in the cold.

"It's hot to the touch," she says, at last.

"It's a magical tattoo," I reply. "I keep it dormant because it makes my back burst out in flame, which is unsurprisingly not conducive to wearing shirts. I don't feel it at all, though."

"When did you get it?"

"When I was on vacation right after," I say. My meaning of _after is clear; the whole world thinks of after_ the same way.

"Same time I got mine," she replies. "My father was tied up in legal stuff, since he was known to be a sympathizer. I had a bit more freedom to move around than I normally do."

"Oh? Can I see yours?"

"Not until the third date at the earliest," she replies, definitely tongue-in-cheek.

"And when will that be?" I ask, deciding to tease her back.

Daphne surprises me again, and she gives me a gentle hug from behind me. "Keep showing me a good time, and it might actually happen, Potter," she replies. "Anyway, thank you. It pleases me to know that both of those sickos are dead."

"You're welcome," I say. I don't bother to mention that it wasn't for her that I did it, since I am sure that fate has played a role in giving me such a gift to give to her.

"Was it hard?"

"Daphne," I say, as I put my shirt back on. "It's always hard. Especially when you're around."

She rolls her eyes. "Was it hard to kill them, I mean?"

"Not especially," I reply, as I put my shirt on and begin to button it up. "I had killed before then, you know–Quirrell, and whatnot... But it was the first time I killed someone outside of self-defense." I think for a second. I've never really considered this before, and answering honestly requires some thought. "I've been around death so much that I'm a little desensitized to it. Was it hard? No. Would I do it again? In a heartbeat, if I thought it was necessary. The problem, now, is legality."

Daphne nods, but looks away. "I understand."

"So, about last year," I prompt.

Daphne blinks. "Right. Last year, Amycus Carrow kept going after 'Storie. She's not as hardened as me," says Daphne. "Always a bit too trusting, always taken back at the way that she's treated. By the end of the second week, she was a wreck, and while I really wanted to get out of there–not that home was any better–I knew that I needed to get her out of here."

"Which is why you betrothed her to Malfoy."

"That comes later," says Daphne. "Malfoy came to me before I left. He and Parkinson had had a falling out, you see; Parkinson's family had rescinded the marriage contract between the two, since the Malfoys really had no status to speak of. Malfoy hadn't been laid for almost two weeks, and I don't think he ever learned to use his hand."

I can't help but snort.

Daphne looks at me with amusement. "Go ahead and laugh. He was completely a limp fish in bed. Thirty-seconds Malfoy. But I didn't sleep with him just yet," she says. "I saw opportunity there. I promised to put out for him, but only if he would get 'Storie out and somewhere safe. Of course, he said yes."

"Too trusting," I mutter.

"Hmm?"

"You were too trusting," I say. "You didn't extract an oath. I bet you kicked yourself for that later."

Daphne nods. "Right in one. Malfoy laughed about it later. Called me a whore; said he'd never agreed to anything." She brushes her long hair out of her eyes, and tucks the difficult strands behind her ear. "If there's one thing I'm good at, though, Potter, it's dueling. Seriously–I doubt you could beat me. I put Malfoy in the hospital wing for a week."

I whistle. "That's pretty difficult to do when Pomfrey's concerned."

"I paid for it," she says. "Retribution was swift. When he got out of the hospital wing, he caught me with my back turned, way out on the edge of the Forbidden Forest. _Cruorem Flebit_. I don't suppose you've heard of that one?"

I haven't. I shake my head. "Blood... flees?" My Latin is poor.

"_It will cry blood," she corrects. "She_ will cry blood, but you've got the gist of it. I'm lucky–unlucky, I suppose, depending on if you think like I do–to be alive, but Snape found me and brought me to the Hospital Wing."

"I don't think that way at all," I say. "I'm glad you are."

"Six months in the hospital. No visitors, and I was too ill to go more than twenty steps to the bathroom. No point in going to Saint Mungo's, since they'd just keep me in a bed there until I succumbed. It's not a curable curse, Potter."

"How'd you survive?" I ask.

"Fluke. Malfoy's incompetency, I suspect."

I reiterate myself. "I'm glad you're here."

"Is being here really that much better than being dead?" Daphne shakes her head. "I remain unconvinced."

"You married your sister off," I say. "Granted, I'm not sure that Malfoy was a much better option."

"You can't appreciate how much better an option he is, Potter," says Daphne. "Even if I hadn't rebuilt him, he would have been a better choice than home."

"Rebuilt him?"

Daphne grins. "Revenge upon revenge upon revenge. I was released on the first of March, just soon enough to be informed that I'd failed too many examinations and would have to repeat. I met Malfoy to beat the stuffing out of him–"

"That was stupid," I say.

"Maybe," she replies. "I'm a much better witch than he is a wizard, Potter. There's no way he could have beat me without surprise, and the first thing I'd done after getting out of the Hospital Wing was buy a Sneakoscope and a Mini Foe-Glass. At any rate, I couldn't let that stand. I caught him, and I selectively Obliviated him and implanted false memories until he was exactly what I needed him to be. He wrote a letter to his father, who saw the opportunity for social gain. He sent my dad a letter, who laughed about it and threw it away.

"He didn't destroy it, though, and when we returned after you and the Dark Lord had it out, I managed to Confund my father and got him to sign it. When he found out what I did, his rage was... unpleasant," says Daphne, with a poorly concealed shudder. "But it worked. He had to let 'Storie go; there was no way he could rescind the contract without drawing exactly the sort of scrutiny none of us want."

"So now it's just you, taking the brunt of his... whatever," I say.

"Me and my mother, yes."

"But he doesn't–"

"He prefers children, but he wouldn't discriminate if it came down to the matter. I can't leave, Potter, not while my mother is still there. She's in far worse condition than I am. I could never abandon another person to him."

I see Daphne's passion, and I see her sadness, and her anger, too. I cannot see how anyone could do what her father has done to a child, let alone to Daphne. She is so beautiful, so beautiful and bright and full of life. She is like an angel, but an angel whose wings are tied down. What has been done to her... it is profane. It makes me want to weep for her, to weep for the destruction of all that is _good_.

But I have the power to untie those wings. I hold the power to free her.

"Daphne," I say, softly. "Daph, we have to get you out of there."

"I can't leave her," she replies.

"Nobody would blame you," I say, "but we don't have to leave her. We can get her out. Have her divorce your father."

Daphne sighs. "It would never happen, Potter. My mother is like my sister. Worse, even–she doesn't believe he is doing anything wrong."

"You could hide–"

"To very little effect," rebuts Daphne. "If my mother and I both ran away, that would bring way too much attention to us. The Ministry would investigate, and it's not exactly hard to find out about what goes on in our house. We'd trade one type of chains for another type, and at least at home, I'm not at risk of execution."

I sigh. I am frustrated, as I am sure Daphne is, but it seems like she does not want to escape. "So there's no way of getting you out," I say.

"Short of killing my father and making it look like a natural death, no," replies Daphne.

"Or having you married off," I say, thinking of her sister.

Daphne bursts into laughter.

I admit that I am slightly disturbed by this.

"Was it something I said?"

Daphne wipes tears from her eyes. "You are so naive, Potter," she says. "Everyone knows that my father would never consider marrying one of his daughter to anyone less than a respectable Pureblood family." She shakes her head. "And, honestly, short of a memory-charmed zombie, who would marry someone like me?"

"I'd marry you," I say honestly.

Daphne looks at me in surprise. "You?"

"I'm not a Pureblood, no, but surely the Vanquisher of Voldemort would be a suitable match for your father?"

"You," she says, "would be acceptable to him. I don't think you know what you're getting into, though," she says. "Honestly, Potter, this is something you really don't want to get involved with. And as desperate as I am to get out of the house, I wouldn't do that to you."

"_You're_ someone I want to be involved with, Daph," I say.

There is a long, long moment of silence wherein we both stare at each other. The words in our conversation seem to have fallen away; they have deserted us.

Daphne's watch starts to beep. She looks down at it and blinks. "Eleven already."

"What's your alarm for?" I ask, as she leafs through her bag, trying to find something.

She has found it, and comes up with it to the table. It is a phial that glows etherial blue, lighter than her eyes, but very much with the same intensity.

"It's a–"

"–Calming Draught," I supply. "I recognize it well. I suppose you take it to help–"

"I take it so that I can get through the day," she replies. "I've been on it since I first showed up for Hogwarts. It's the only reason I'm sane."

"May I?" I ask, as I gently take it from her hands.

Daphne looks slightly flummoxed.

I uncork the phial, and waft some of the fumes toward my nose. It does not smell right, so I bring it a little closer and take an actual sniff. "Whoo!" I exclaim, and I quickly cork it. "Just who gave you this potion?"

"Madam Pomfrey," says Daphne. "She's been giving me potion for ages. Why?"

"Because the Fluxweed in this has long since soured," I say. "It'd still work, but it'd be like drinking sludge water. Probably give you terrible indigestion and a headache to boot."

"I thought that was just a side effect of growing too accustomed to it?" she asks, though she is blushing.

"No," I say. "There's no such thing as overexposure to Calming Draught. Build-up in your system just makes you stay calmer. There's nothing in it that's addictive or harmful to your body," I say, though I correct myself. "Unless, of course, you're drinking something like this."

"I learn something new every day, Potter," she says, as she accepts the phial back from me.

Despite my warning, she still pops the cork, though, until I reach over and grab it from her fingers again. "Hey!"

"Seriously," I say. "Don't go drinking that."

"I _need_ some, Potter, unless you enjoy having your head ripped off."

"With you, Daphne," I say, as I dig through my robes, "it'd probably be an enjoyable experience. Here. Try this."

She takes the offered phial, and uncorks it. Like me, she takes a sniff. It is far more pleasant stuff than what she has been drinking; I know, since I brewed it only a month ago. I, too, take it regularly. Seeing that this is as good a time as any to quaff mine, I remove another phial from my robe.

"Smells like it should," says Daphne. "Bottom's up?" she asks, when she sees the phial in my hand.

I link arms with her, and we both down our potions.

Daphne lets out a very unladylike belch as she finishes hers. I laugh, and she grins proudly.

"I wonder how long Pomfrey's batch has been bad?"

"Pomfrey's no Potions Mistress," I reply. "Probably since sixth year, or so–Snape's last batch. Unless you do a lot of your own brewing, understanding how Fluxweed works and when it goes bad is practically impossible, since it doesn't have any aroma on its own."

Daphne looks at me queerly. "And just how do you know this?"

"I brewed it myself. Have been doing so, since I offed Voldemort."

Daphne looks down at the empty phial in her hand. "I'm not going to die, now, am I?" she asks, with what looks like minor concern. "Last I heard, Potter, you weren't exactly a prodigy at Potions–"

"I learned through trial and error," I say. "I didn't trust anyone to brew it for me, so I started off doing my best, and steadily improved from there."

"That's way better than it normally is," she says. I notice she is smiling now. I have done a good job on this batch, obviously.

"Well," I say, "we should get you some more of my stock. If I'd known that you were on Potion, I would have offered long before."

"I'm up for drinking that any time," says Daphne. "Can we go now?"

I blink. "Are you sure? It's eleven o'clock, and while you're with the Head Boy, it is past curfew."

"You used to be so eager to please me just half an hour ago," she says. "What happened?"

I stick my tongue out at her. "Fine. Be that way. Just be prepared to be... well, be prepared."

"Whatever, Potter. Just let me at your potion." She looks at me and sees my grin. "Pervert."

She is still smiling, though. I remove the Invisibility Cloak from my pocket, and grin at how close we will have to stand to have it cover the both of us.

* * *

We are in Moaning Myrtle's bathroom twenty minutes later.

"Some date, Potter," says Daphne. She is staring at the wet-floored bathroom in disgust. It is a look I would have expected to see on her face months ago, but now it seems foreign. "I knew there was a reason I never came in here, not the least that the Head Boy is apparently using it to brew potions."

"Not in here, love," I say. "I have brewed here before, but believe me, the residents can get a little tetchy."

I have been praying to the right beings, clearly, since there is no movement, no rushling, no splashing at the mention of Myrtle.

"Well, I'd get tetchy, too, if you sat down to brew a potion in a bathroom I was using."

I roll my eyes. "What do you know about our second year?"

"Well, I know that you–" Daphne pauses. Her eyes go wide. "No! Here?"

I nod.

"And you _brew_ there?"

"Amongst other things," I say. I am very curious to see Daphne's reaction to the Chamber. I often forget–perhaps by subconscious occlusion–that she is a Slytherin. She believes that she is seeing the last work of Salazar Slytherin; I am offering her so much more.

"Didn't Dumbledore seal this place–?"

"No," I reply. "He had intended to come explore it with me in my third year, I believe, but there were... extenuating circumstances, so-to-speak, that caused his focus to be directed elsewhere."

"Well, come on!" she says, anxiously. This is a good sign, I believe.

I survey Daphne for one last second. "Very well," I say. "_Open._"

Cracks appear along each side of the round, and the basins fold down and slide out of the way. Silently, but nonetheless impressively, the entire column where disappears into the ground, leaving nothing but a dark, dank hole.

"Ladies first?"

Daphne just looks at me as she sits down on the ledge. "This won't kill me?"

I laugh. "I don't usually hear in a relationship until I cook something."

Daphne rolls her eyes dramatically. "I'm laughing so hard, Potter."

"That's good; I'm glad to know you think I'm funny." I give her a little nudge with my shoe. "Go on. You'll be fine."

Daphne looks down into the abyss, and then looks back up at me.

It is my turn to roll my eyes. "Chicken," I say, but I sit down next to her. My feet hang over the edge.

"I notice you're not going first," she replies.

I look at Daphne. "If you want me to, I will. If you're that worried, let's go together."

Daphne looks down the hole, and then looks up at me again. "Just how do you propose we do that?" she asks. One eyebrow is raised.

"You ever go down one of those enormous Muggle slides?" I ask Daphne this question while I am waving my wand behind her back. She is unaware of it, but I have just made her feather-light.

"No."

"Me neither," I reply, and I reach over and lift her up easily by the waist. Daphne barely has time to indignantly protest before I settle her on my lap, and push us over the edge. "But I imagine it's something like this!"

* * *

We stand at the bottom of the great slide, amidst piles of rat skulls. Daphne is standing a few feet from me; she is back to her normal weight, and has a nasty look of anger on her face. I have already apologized twice for overstepping my boundaries, but I felt it, just as much as Daphne will not admit it, when she leaned back and laid in my arms.

Granted, she was screaming in exhilaration at the time, but a moment is a moment!

"Some date," she says.

"This was the most fun you've had in ages. Admit it."

"And bones everywhere–urgh. If this is your idea of romance, Potter–"

"You're not that disgusted, Daph," I say with confidence. "You're hiding your interest. This place is legendary, and you're barely hiding your interest."

Daphne laughs. "I only came down here to get some of the Potion supply you promised." She pauses and looks back up the chute from whence we came. I can tell she is far more serious. "Looks like you came down here to get me alone."

I look at what she's looking at. It takes me a second, but I realise that I understand what she is accusing me of. "Oh! No, sorry. My fault," I say. A hiss is all that is needed to cause a hidden door to open on the opposite side of the room. "If you need to go, that should take you up to the second floor, behind that tapestry of Caesar. You know the one?"

Daphne nods.

I can sense the awkwardness between us, so I forge onward, in hope that I may inspire Daphne to open up again. "When I first came down here, I was aided by Dumbledore's Phoenix, Fawkes. Not only did Fawkes save my life, but he was able to carry four of us back to the school with little effort." I realise I am slightly sad to remember such a thing. This is a good thing to tell Daphne; it shows I have emotional depth. "I haven't seen Fawkes since Dumbledore died. I know I'll see him again, one day, when I most need him, but I miss him. Him and Dumbledore."

"Can't say I miss Dumbledore," says Daphne with a mutter. "He didn't exactly make it easy for us–"

"–Well, then again, you had Snape, didn't you?" I reply. Though I loathe the man, I recognize the work he did for his Slytherins.

Daphne smiles. "Yeah, we did."

I smile at her. "Well, then. Forgetting unpleasant topics–shall we?"

I am vindicated; Daphne is not so angry at me that she rejects the arm I offer. She links hers with me, and off we amble toward the main Chamber.

We walk through the piles of boulders long since moved by me to clear the path. "You remember Lockhart, right? The one who ended up in St. Mungo's?"

"Pretty hard to forget him," says Daphne. She laughs, but it is a small, restrained laugh. The closer we get to the Chamber, the tighter her grip on my upper arm gets.

"I'll say." I grin at her. "He caused this rockslide. Tried to Oblivate Ron and me during my second year–"

Daphne interrupts. "–But he used Weasley's Spell-o-taped wand. Right. I've heard this before." She looks at the rockfall. "Doesn't seem like it was that bad…"

"It was insurpassable," I admit. "Ron and Lockhart were stuck on one side; I was stuck on the other. I can't imagine what it must have been like to be Ron. He stayed to move the boulders… Every noise he heard, I'm sure he thought it had to be the Basilisk. He had to know that there was a good chance he was digging his way to his death."

"And he had to do it while in the company of Lockhart," says Daphne. "That's even braver."

"Just goes to show that you don't need your memory to be a complete git."

Daphne doesn't even laugh this time. If I could still feel my arm, I would suspect it is going numb. She has it clenched so hard, and I understand why. We are before the massive circular door that seals the antechamber from the Great Chamber.

We stop; I gently pry Daphne's fingers off of my arm, and switch her grip to my hand. She surrenders easily into a close hug. "You're feeling it," I observe, "but don't feel bad–I feel it too. This is a place of ossification, and of great and ancient magic. There is nothing down here that will harm you, but it will seem like it at every turn.

"But don't forget that I'm here," I finish.

"It feels…" Daphne is hunting for the words.

"Dark," I supply.

She nods.

"It's an illusion," I say. Sometimes it is necessary to lie. "Just stay close to me. Don't be frightened."

I do not want to break our hug, but the Secrets of the Chamber lie in front of us. "_Open!_"

Snakes wind, and gears shift. Dust trickles down, though I have been here every day this week. There is a soft clicking before the door swings open, and there is a great rush of air that excapes from the Chamber itself.

Daphne's hand tightens around mine again. I squeeze back, trying to send my strength to her.

We step over the seal and into the total darkness of the Great Chamber. About twenty feet in, Daphne stops in her tracks. "What is that ungodly smell?"

"A number of things," I say. "This place doesn't stay very fresh, except where I employ Air Cycling charms. There's also a thousand-year-old Basilisk's corpse lying further in. It's in a fairly interesting state of decomposition."

Daphne wrinkles her nose. "Why don't you get rid of it?"

"When was the last time you tried to vanish something that weights over one hundred tonnes, and that is super-resistant to magic?" I pause for a second. "It's also part of the decor, too."

There is a hiss from behind us. I can feel Daphne start, but I just laugh. It is the huge door closing behind us. "Just put your hand on it, if you have to leave," I say. "It should open easily from the inside. Not so much from the outside."

"Are you enjoying this, Potter?" she asks.

"Quite," I say. "Aren't you?"

"I would prefer if we were not in complete darkness," she says, honestly."

"You didn't charm your eyes, did you?"

"Do you? Was I supposed to?"

"No," I reply to both. "I've been down here so much I can do it from memory, so I thought you'd rather prefer the dark than actually seeing what is in this room. It's the stuff of nightmares. "

"Is it that bad?" she asks.

"You could handle it," I say. "It's not terrible. Just huge and cold, and there's a pretty impressive statue of your house."

"_Lumos!_" A light flares suddenly near Daphne's right hand. It is not bright enough to see much, beyond five feet. I can see Daphne's face again. Her brow is furrowed, and she looks worried. Worried and frightened. The instinct to hug her once again comes to the forefront, but I repress it.

"Do you want to see?" I ask. "I can turn on the lights."

Daphne nods.

It takes only one short hiss for the torches on the walls to light, and for the overhead lights to turn on. A second later, and it looks like it is midday.

Daphne drinks in the sight. She jumps a little when she sees the rather unpleasant face of Salazar staring at her. The snake statues lining the entrance are all but ignored. She turns her eyes skyward, momentarily, to look at the huge arching ceiling, but it is the Basilisk that catches her attention. She gives a little shudder of revulsion when she sees its curled husk lying to the side.

"I came in, the first time," I say, "through the same way we came in, though it wasn't so brightly lit in here, then. You can't imagine how frightening those statues were to a second year. That–" I point to a few feet left of the center stone. "–was where Voldemort was standing; Ginny Weasley was lying right between Salazar's feet…"

"And… the Basilisk?" she asks, with apprehension.

"Watch," I say. "_Speak to me, Slytherin, greatest of the Hogwarts Four!_"

And Salazar's mouth cracks wide open. "That is where the Basilisk came from, and it is where we go next."

Daphne simply stares.

I gently begin to pull her toward the sweeping robes of the statue , but Daphne resists. I stop, and come stand beside her.

"Come away, Daph," I say.

"I want to see it," she whispers back.

I feel light-headed from the room already, but I follow her, as she approaches the great carkass. It is huge to me, but against it, Daphne's miniscule frame is dwarfed. I try to give her a few seconds, but when her shoulders begin to heave, and she takes a deep, shaking breath in, I forget giving her space.

I wrap my arms around her.

She spins, and presses her face against my chest.

I am not exactly sure what has caused Daphne–normally such a level-headed person–to become so emotional. Yes, there is a Basilisk here, and yes, it did nearly kill me, but I am quite alive right now, and Daphne does not care for me that much.

Does she?

There is something about the Chamber, though. I noticed it myself, the first time I came down here this year. There is something in it that makes the dark darker, that makes shadows dance and flicker with life and leer at you. It is, like I said to Daphne, dark, though it is a very real darkness that the Chamber exudes, and we have yet to enter the inner sanctum. It is not too surprising that a girl would cry in here.

It also helps to explain why Daphne is kissing me, now.

I am shocked, but she has her lips against mine, and she is pressed up against me like she is desperate. She is still crying, but she is still kissing. Unlike Cho, this kiss is fierce.

I hate myself every moment for doing it, but I push Daphne away, gently, without kissing back. "Daph–"

"Potter, what on Earth are you doing?"

"You… you don't want to do this, here," I say. "The Chamber does weird things to a person. It makes you fear. It heightens all your emotions, makes you twitchy and makes you think strange things."

"Potter, don't tell me what I want to do or don't want to do."

I shake my head. "You don't love me, Daphne. We've only had one date, and though it's been undeniably wonderful, you don't love me. I accept that."

"I could love you," she says, still trying to press up against me. "You've offered me an out… I mean, how many people have done that?"

"You could love me," I say, "but you don't right now. You love Jaime Zabini."

Daphne's face twists into a rictus of anger. "I love a dead girl, Potter. I'd really prefer it if you didn't bring her up, especially when I'm trying to get over her and fall in love with someone else."

"Look, I'm sorry–" I say. I feel my own anger growing as well. "–but let's not pretend this something it isn't. You're not in love with me, and I won't let you force it when you could be under of whatever magic it is that–"

"Oh, quit being so damn noble!" snaps Daphne. "If I want to kiss you, that's up to me!"

And she does. It feels so wrong, but so right.

"Kiss me back, damn it!" she says, after she breaks it off.

"This is wrong," I say. My resistance is weakening, though. I feel the Chamber's pull on me, too. All the Occlumency in the world cannot stop these feelings I have for her. "I feel like I'm taking advantage of you."

"You think that you're the only one with an attraction here?" she asks. "News flash, Potter: I've had the hots for you since fourth year. I might not love you, but I meant it when I said that any girl in the school would blow you if you asked. I'm one of them."

There is something about the Chamber, though.

"You're drunk," I say, "or you resemble something close to it. Daph, believe me–I want this, but I want it to be at the right time. If that means that we have to end our date here, so be it."

I turn, and begin to lead her out of the Chamber. I don't get two steps before Daphne catches my hand and stops me.

I turn around to look at her. Daphne is still crying, but her tears are silent. "Harry, please–"

How devilish.

Hearing her say my first name… A wave of pleasure rolls over me. It's a stupid, nasty, common name that I've never particularly been fond of, but on her tongue, it sounds divine. I note with only a slight note of displeasure that my will to resist, to be noble, has disappeared–the thought seems so far away, now. We are both intoxicated in our own way.

I turn around and close the gap between us. I am so close to her that I can feel her sharp breath on my neck. The tears that hang on her cheek have also wet the tiny strands of absolute black hair that fall down the side of her cheeks. I reach out to brush them away, to clear the sadness from her… and when I do, my hand finds her cheek.

"Harry…"

"Daph."

We kiss.

It is magic.

It is gentle first, but passionate next. The first thing I feel are Daphne's lips. They are so soft, and just moist. Made for my own. The second thing I feel is her tongue meeting mine. We are inches apart, and my hands slide from her sides to her back and pull her closer, press her form up against mine. My trembling hands slide down the back of her dress and find her waist. I can feel Daphne trembling, too.

Our first real kiss ends quietly. We are both silent. What does one say after that? Life is, for the moment, perfect.

I break the silence. "That was…"

"Astounding," provides Daphne.

And we are kissing again. Hungrily, this time. Our fear, our anger, our hatred of the world drive us together. This is not the gentle kiss of last time. This is a fist-in-hair, fingernails-on-skin, back-arching trail of kisses that leaves Daphne looking ravished and me looking windswept.

I break the kiss off.

Daphne looks at me angrily. "Get back here," she says. "I'm not done with you."

"And I'm not done with you, but not here," I say. "Come with me…"

And I pull her by the hand, up the steps nested in Salazar's robe, and through the gaping maw into a long, upward-sweeping circular tunnel.

It is dark again, and Daphne pulls at my arm for a quick kiss. I indulge her, but what is a quick kiss turns into a kiss with Daphne's back thrown up against the cold wall, with my tongue in her mouth, and with her hands somehow under my robes and inside my shirt. Daphne is moaning.

"Let's go," I say, after I force myself off of her. The aggressive sexual tension between us is almost palpable. On a whim, I give Daphne's rear a smack to send her in the right direction.

"Just who do you think you are, Potter?"

I smirk. "Let's find out, hmm?"

We pass by a tunnel unseen that leads to the cradle of the late Basilisk. I ignore it, but Daphne shivers in the draft that comes from it. I wrap my arm around her to keep her going.

At long last, we reach our destination. There is only one room beyond this one, but the room I open the door to is my room. Everything in it is white, but without a command to illuminate it, the room itself stays dimly lit by one torch in the middle of the room. Underneath it, four cauldrons bubble away quietly above unseen flames.

My trunk lies at the foot of a conjured bed off to the side; likewise, my books are dispersed about the room; some lie on the table by the potions; others are set on deep leather chairs of my own two wands.

"Where are we?" breathes Daphne.

"This was Salazar Slytherin's personal sanctuary," I say. "It's where I've been spending all of my time this year, mostly to avoid people I don't want to see–"

"The Weasley girl?"

"Amongst others," I say with a nod of my head. "This has been blissfully quiet. It's been a place where I can practice spells, brew potions, read a book, catch up on some sleep. I've even flown in the Great Chamber before."

Daphne's eyes take the place in with delight, with a luminescent vivacity. It is a look that redirects blood.

"There are ancient works of art in here," says Daphne. "They must be priceless."

"They're worth a pretty penny, that's for sure," I say, "but I don't really focus on them. They all have preservation charms on them. Besides, what's really valuable lies in the room beyond."

"What is it?" asks Daphne. She steps closer to me. Her hips sway just slightly as she moves. The movement is intoxicating; it takes me a second to find my words again.

"Salazar's final resting place," I reply. "The history books all wonder where he went when he left Hogwarts. He never left."

"Will you show me it?"

"Sure."

"Not now," says Daphne impatiently. "Later. We have other things to be doing now."

"Right," I say. "Here's the potions–"

I cannot tell in the dim light if Daphne has just rolled her eyes at me, but I suspect so.

"These two are Calming Draught, and this one is Dreamless Sleep," I say. I point to the final cauldron. "You should recognize that one. It's–"

"–Felix Felicis," says Daphne with confidence. "Potter, you're not under Liquid Luck, are you?" She is now so close that I have to look straight down to see her face.

"No," I say.

"When are you planning on using it?"

I cannot help but blush. "I figured I could use it to ask you for the _second_ date, you know?"

Daphne just smiles at me. "Harry–"

I shiver.

"–Harry, you don't _need_ Liquid Luck."

My throat is suddenly very dry.

"If you didn't have enough luck before…"

Daphne stands on her tiptoes and seizes my lips with hers. She is ravenous, even moreso this time than the last. Her kisses lean into me, and knock me back. What is a stumble backwards turns into a regular step to avoid her own steps forward. We tango backwards. She pushes, always pushes forward, until I feel my legs lift out from under me. I have fallen on the bed.

Daphne kicks her shoes across the room. One flies two feet upward and lands on the stone floor with a dull _thunk_. The other skids across the room until it hits the leg of a chair. I do not see what happens to it next, because Daphne is suddenly straddling me.

"Daph, are you–?"

"Just fuck me, Harry," she says. "Hard, please."

Whatever doubts, whatever reservations I have been having about doing this here, doing this now… they are gone. The beautiful brunette straddling my lap is my here and now.

Her wand is in her hand, suddenly, and I tense, but she runs it down the front of my robe, and it splits neatly apart. I am released, and she untucks the side of my shirt and thread her hands underneath.

It is hard not to gasp. Her hands are like ice–fitting, perhaps, but shocking. She runs them over my abdomen; her fingers trace the muscles there. She smiles like she has bested the devil; her eyes speak of the name he gave her: Promethea.

My own hands find her calves, and she tenses initially to my touch. Yet such resistance cannot last long in the face of sensual massage, and my fingers–trained out of their naïveté by Hannah Abbott–work up and down the smooth flesh of her legs. The second I reach her heels, her own fingers stop, and she lets out a deep moan.

The first way to a girl's heart is a footrub. The second is a backrub. The third is a full-body rub. The fourth… well, you get the point. Daphne collapses onto all fours above me as I draw her feet up higher. Her head eclipses the torch, and the hair that hangs down over top my face glows like a black halo.

The pressure I apply to her feet causes her body to sway forward and back. To steady herself against it, she lowers herself to her forearms; she buries her hands in my hair. As her head falls beside my ear, I can hear her quietly moaning.

Daphne's lips find my cheek, and she kisses up and down my face. She seems happy to let me continue rubbing her feet, but she shifts her weight and reaches up with one hand to undo her dress.

While she unhooks the top of it, she cannot get the zipper down; I suspect it is snagged, so I abandon her feet to help. I wrap my arms around her to still her, and slide the zipper down. When I have undone it, I slide a hand inside the fabric and find the small of her back. The flesh there is toned but also soft, and I decide to change my focus to rubbing her back.

I am rewarded, again, with a moan, and with a bevy of tongue-intruding kisses. It does not last long, though. Daphne pulls away and straightens up. "Get this dress off of me, Potter," she says.

She raises her arms, but I am just as capable with magic as she is. My holly wand, never far from my hand, slices through the air, and Daphne's dress unseams itself and begins to unwind from top and bottom. It disappears slowly, revealing bit after bit after bit of Daphne. The fabric–unwound, hundreds of feet long–slithers like a snake across the room and up the desk, where it reassembles itself silently.

I drink her in. The way her hair falls to her collarbone, the slight sweep out of her stomach to her navel, her hip bones, the goosebumps on her arm from the cold… She is flawless, a peerless beauty. She is straddling me in nothing but lacy black knickers and a matching brassiere.

"Like what you see?" she asks.

I just nod, and lick my lips. We are beyond words, now, I think.

Daphne smirks, and leans down to meet my mouth again. My hands run up and down her back, and, as she presses against me, I spin her about and pull myself on top in one quick motion. She is under me, now, and I feel greatly emboldened. My own tongue grows more daring, and once she is gasping for breath, I kiss down her cheek and the side of her neck.

I can feel Daphne's fingers searching for and undoing the buttons on my shirt, but I do not intend to make it easy for her. She shivers as I kiss down her collarbone, and then she grins as I run a finger across her taut stomach.

Finally, she succeeds, and she shucks my shirt off of me like I am the wrapping around an anticipated Christmas gift. Her hands and her eyes rove my chest in concert.

I gasp; I cannot help it. Daphne has just pinched both of my nipples _hard. This is a new sensation to me; definitely not a Hannahism. The pain is not intense, but it is there, and it feels good, even. I'll be damned if it doesn't feel right with Daphne. _

Daphne has her best Christmas gift grin on, too. Her attraction and arousal are beyond evident: she is carressing my chest with reverence.

Some payback is in order. Another searing kiss, and I force her arms around me, and lift her entirely into my own arms. By virtue of her petiteness, Daphne is not heavy–maybe eight, eight-and-a-half stone–so I have no problem holding her there, even while she squirms.

"Harry–!"

I have her bra undone in no time flat. My fingers are deft, yes, but small-scale wandless magic is within my grasp, and shifting clasps is a skill of mine well-developed. Daphne's breasts spring free of their fabric prison, and she looks up at me in shock (as if to ask: _"You dare?!") but also with excitement. _

She is back down on the bed, now, and my mouth and hands are _on_ her. Her monthlies are over, but not long over, so she is beyond sensitive right now, and I use that to my advantage. It takes no work whatsoever to have her squirming in my arms.

She grabs my hair to stop me. This, I have experienced with Hannah, but Hannah is a Hufflepuff and so is–if not innately, then certainly by practice–gentle. No man would ever describe Daphne as gentle. I am pulled up from her chest to her mouth. She practically crushes my lips.

When I surface for air, I see her again. Daphne's hair is a mess, now; it looks like it has been swept by the wind. She is breathing heavily. There is a dark red spot coming in on her neck, and I can still see the marks of my own teeth on her left breast. Most importantly, her eyes are absolutely alive–more alive than I have seen them yet.

"You are so fucking hot."

Daphne smirks. "I didn't know you even knew those words, Potter."

"There's a lot you don't know about me," I say, and I slide down her body.

What Daphne does not know but quickly finds out is that I am a master of foreign tongues, and I am very clever at using them. Cunning, even. Her knickers come off quickly, and I almost lose my breath again.

I begin my ministrations, and in short order, Daphne _does_ find herself short of breath–panting, even. Her back arches, but my hands, grasping her hip bones, keep her steady. Unable to push herself forward at me, she does the next best thing, and pushes my head down harder.

I can take a hint.

Five intense minute later–about ten seconds of building toward climax, and then the rest sitting a top a wave that does not crest–Daphne screams, presses my head against her even harder. It takes a finger inside her, beckoning her toward me, to bring her over the edge, to make that wave crash down. It is a big wave, and her body spasms paroxysmally.

Daphne lets me up after another minute. I dry my face on the edge of a sheet, and un-crick my neck before I come up to lay beside her.

Daphne does not move, but her head flops to the side to look at me.

"All right?"

Daphne just blinks. "You look so smug right now."

I laugh. "I can only imagine."

"You have every right," she says. "Is that something Hannah taught you? Because, if so, I need to thank her."

I shake my head. "It's not really something that can be taught. I did perfect it on Hannah, yeah, but you can only learn it by learning how to read the signs. You," I say, with a smile, "happen to give absolutely wonderful signs."

"If I keep giving you signs like that, will you do that again for me in the future?"

I grin. "Don't we have to agree to a second date first–?"

Daphne looks at me with incredulity, before her face changes to a smirk. "There isn't going to be a second date, Potter, if you don't get those pants off right now."

"You want _me_ to take off my own pants?" I ask.

Daphne's response is quite effective: "It's pretty hard to fuck me with pants on."

Not two minutes later, I am in between Daphne's legs, poised and ready. She gives me a kiss, and reads my mind. It is not Legilimency, or any such thing, but rather the look on my face that tells her what I am thinking. "I wouldn't have asked, Potter, if I didn't want to."

"Do I need to cast–?"

"I'm on the potion," she says. "Hard not to be. Just shut up and fuck, Potter."

Our coupling is slow and awkward, but the sensation is pleasant, and I derive more joy than I have ever felt before from seeing petite Daphne Greengrass beneath me, eyes half-shut in pleasure. Having seen such a thing, I do not know how I will ever think of anything else.

I am mindful of what Daphne has said earlier, and so I am extra attentive to the rhythm between us. Our bodies move in tandem; Daphne shudders and I feel her contract around me; I feel a little flutter myself.

Daphne pulls my head down to hers, and kisses me. She moans, and turns her head to put her mouth right beside my ear. "Harder!" she whispers.

* * *

"Ungh! Harder, Harry! Rough!"

These are the words of the evening. What was tender is now rough, harsh, frenzied… Feral, almost. There is a passion between us, built from the depths of negativity we both hide inside ourselves, brought forward by the darkness, the cold, the secrecy, the anger behind the place we are in. We are in a thousand-year chamber built for the purpose of murder. We are fucking hard to keep the darkness away, to keep the slap-slap-slap of flesh on flesh loud, to beat out the silence–to spit in its face, and to say that we are more than fear, than anger, than murder.

We are fucking against the wall.

–Until finally, when we both reach the ineluctable–and the incredible, in the oldest sense of the word–surge of feeling, of essence. Our release is monumental–a moment of sheer, shared ecstacy heightened by her nails digging into my back, by my hand wrapped in her hair, by the cool stones under my feet, and by the sweaty heat of of our bodies pressed together.

And in complete silence but for our heavy breathing, we are one.

* * *

We lie in my conjured bed, twenty minutes later. Daphne's head rests against my chest. One of my hands is wrapped around her; the other is behind my head. I am enjoying skin-to-skin contact, but I cannot help but feel uneasy, like everything has changed. I am not sure what gives me this feeling.

I still love Daphne; this is beyond clear. If anything, our newfound closeness has only reinforced that. I hope to be with this incredible woman the rest of my life.

Perhaps this is why I am so taken when Daphne throws the covers off and stands up.

"Daph?"

"What?" she asks.

"What are you doing?"

"What does it look like, Potter?" she asks. "I'm getting dressed."

"But–"

Daphne turns and looks at me. There is something new in her look: pity. "Look, Harry, it's not that you're a nice guy–"

"–But you're not staying," I finish for her. "Why? I thought there was really something–"

"–There is," she says. "I really do feel something for you. If the situation was different, who knows what would happen. Maybe I'd even accept your proposal. What matters now is that I can't accept it in good faith. It won't work between us."

The silence falls heavily after this pronouncement, but hearts don't usually make noises when they break, do they?

"Daphne, why on Earth are you doing this? We can make it work, fix the whole thing with your father–"

Daphne picks up her bra from the floor and puts it on. "I wish I could agree with you, Harry, but I need to deal with my mother before I can even think of getting myself out, if I can get out–and that's a big if."

"This doesn't add up," I say. I toss the blankets off myself and stand up. My nudity, comfortable just five minutes ago, now seems glaringly out of place. Still, I move to Daphne's side.

"I can't do this, Harry. Maybe some time in the future. You're a sweet guy and all, but this… this can't happen."

"You're right," I say, as I run a hand through my hair. "This can't be happening. Daphne, what's gotten into you–?"

She has finished putting on her knickers, and she spins. "Oh, please, Potter," she says. "Don't pretend you know me–"

"–You're not the sort to fuck and leave, Daph," I say with certainty. "You don't play hard and fast with other people's emotions. You loved–maybe still do love–Jaime Zabini. You cared enough about your sister to break about eighty billion laws to marry her off happily. The fact that you care enough about your mother to brave your father's presence speaks a lot about your heart."

"You don't know me," she says, and I can tell that she is not even listening to me at this point. Her dress is on, and she is walking across the room to retrieve her shoes.

"I know you better than anyone else," I say. "I followed you for two months, Daph. I can tell you when your birthday is and who your friends are and who you fancy and what you're going to say at any given time to anything." It is this last talent that leads me to stand in front of the door to the room.

Daphne's shoes are now on, and she walks my way.

"I know what this is. You're trying to pull away from me. You did it with Jaime, and now you're doing it to me. Don't do this. Don't pull away. I can help."

Daphne stops right in front of me. "Let me out."

"I won't let you do this, Daph. We both need each other. I can help you through this–"

"Let. Me. Out."

"I've read the psych textbook, too. We both know this is what happens. Hell, I used to do this, too–"

Daphne tries to push past me. She succeeds, too, since she does not bother to go around me, but rather collides her shoulder into mine. Despite her size, she has momentum, and I am not expecting this. I am knocked back, and she is at the door.

"_Lock!_" The words come out as a hiss.

She tries the handle, but she understands what I have done. "I thought you said you wouldn't keep me here," she says. "What changed your mind?"

"We need to talk," I say. "I can't let you walk out that door like this. I promise I won't keep you long, but we need to talk this out."

Daphne quirks her head to the side. "Are you about done?"

I just look at her. I know what is coming, and I can hardly believe it.

"Let me out," she says again.

"I can't," I say. "I can't let you do this to yourself–"

Daphne's wand comes up so quickly that I think I am staring in a mirror. I don't know anybody with a draw so fast. "Let me out, Potter."

And here I stand, faced with a hostile Slytherin who has drawn their wand on me.

Despite my first inclination to dive for my wand, I stand my ground. "Daphne, put away the wand."

"Let me out!"

"Put it away, Daphne. There's no need to do anything hasty–"

"Let me out, or I'll make you let me out."

And there it is. That is the cue that I ought to have my wands in my hands. I recognize the look in her eyes. It is the same look that I get when faced with somebody who is being a problem.

I slowly start to back up. "How are you going to make me?" I ask. "I won't open it for you until you discuss this with me."

Of course, the time for discussion has passed. I know this now. She is feeling confined in this room, and her flight instinct is in overdrive. I ought to let her out, but if I can get my wand, I can Stun her, and we can fix this…

"There are ways of making you give in, Potter," she says.

Just a few more feet to my wands… "I don't think you've got it in you to torture, Greengrass."

"Try me," says Daphne. "Open the damn door, Potter, or I'll curse you bad–"

"I'd go to McGonagall so fast–"

"Assuming you could still talk, you mean."

"It'd be my word against yours."

"I happen to know what you've been up to this year," she replies. "I'm not dumb; I can see things that others willfully ignore. Once the Aurors break your Memory Charms on half the student body, you'll be going away for a long, long time, Potter–"

Six inches separates me from my holly wand. Getting to it is now a matter of future sanity.

"Don't do this, Daphne," I say. "We've got so much going for us…"

To her credit, Daphne appears to think about this. Unfortunately for her, I have learned my lesson about facing _any_ Slytherin without my wand, and I dive for it. My body practically sings with joy as it snuggles against my right palm, and I roll rapidly across the bed to avoid the chain of Reductor Curses that Daphne silently flicks my way.

I use the distraction of the cloud of feathers hanging in the air to send my own Stunner at her. It is not a particularly complicated counter-attack, but it is sufficient to distract her while I snatch the elder wand from the sleeve of my robe.

Daphne has not lied about her dueling prowess; she is _good_. Incredible, even. Her situational awareness is beyond the pale, and so it's with a great deal of caution that I have to dodge four animated cauldrons running at me, all of them scalding hot, and all of them holding boiling liquid in them. In the meantime, Daphne's wand is spitting curses at me, while Daphne herself rolls to the left to put herself closer to the furniture–presumably to send them running at me, too.

I am not the Vanquisher of Voldemort for no reason, though. I may have beat him on a technicality, but I damn well trained for taking him down like a normal man. This attack–formidable though it might be–does not phase me.

A flick of my wand sends the cauldrons scurrying away. A swish steals the animated chair from Daphne's control; it crashes into her roughly, knocking her off her feet. While her feet are up in the air, I charm one of her shoes so that it tightens painfully around her foot, which will hopefully impair her movement. The wand in my left hand shields me from her wildly-aimed Reductor that just happens to wind up on target. I am closing the gap between us, since I have better reflexes. It will give me a decided advantage.

Daphne is no pushover, though. Even from a sitting position, she gets a Knockback Jinx through my shield, which forces me to backtrack rapidly, lest I lose my balance. She is once again on her feet, and both her shoes are off, so I know her movement is not restricted. Finally, a rainbow of white and purple beams sizzle as they pass through the air in front of me.

These are not simple spells like Stupefy. These are designed to hurt, and, in some cases, kill. The gloves are off now.

I bat every one of them away, and we are left facing each other, ten feet apart. Daphne's eyes are wild and angry–the untamed beast has risen in her. We are both breathing heavily. We are dancing, so close to the way we were earlier… but this is _deadly_.

"For the last time, Potter, let me out."

I ignore her request. "Do you know what is absolutely intolerable to me?"

Daphne is entirely silent, so I answer anyway.

"Slytherins pointing wands at me."

The silence remains.

Daphne breaks it by casting a Disembowelment Curse. It comes within six inches of my bits–which are still exposed–before I can snap a shield into place. It is a frightening moment.

And the duel is back on in earnest. Daphne remains on the offense; a barrage of Reductors, Stunners, and other terrifying curses hurtle my way. She is a duelist in the most classical sense–throw 'em hard and throw 'em fast. It is similar to the way that I used to duel, but since defeating Voldemort, my style has changed significantly. Still, she is vicious about her attack, and it is only thanks to the use of both of my wands that I am able to counter-attack.

Unbeknownst to Daphne, the chair that had knocked her off her feet earlier begins to gallop toward her. The arms of it detach themselves and grow fingers. At the same time, the cauldrons turn from the corners of the room and begin to converge upon her.

I hope Salazar is rolling over in his tomb at the thought of Albus Dumbledore's heir performing silent, instantaneous animation.

It is a dangerous move, but necessary: I close my eyes. The cauldrons dart in front of Daphne and collide at high speed. There is an eruption of boiling liquid high into the air, but most importantly, there is a reaction that takes place between Alihotsy in the Felix Felicis and Juniper Weed in the Dreamless Sleep. It is mostly harmless, but Alihotsy is what we colloquially call a _taker in potions, and Juniper Weed is a giver_. When they come into unmediated contact, they burn like a truckful of Magnesium driven into an active volcano. Hell, I'm half blind when it goes off.

When the light fades, I open my eyes. Daphne has hers closed, and I curse silently, but reflect on the girl's genius. Not many people would know about that reaction, but she does. She even catches the approaching chair with a cry of "Reducto!"

And then I am on the defensive again. She lays down a wall of hexes and curses that makes her earlier casting seem like child's play. I am forced to back down, to use both wands and my legs to defend myself. The occasional counter attack fails miserably.

It very quickly becomes obvious that I am going to lose this fight.

I am desperate at this point. I _cannot_ lose to a Slytherin. That is unacceptable. The old standby leaps into my head. "Sectumsempra!"

It is a risk, but a calculated one. I snap off three Stunners at a wide angle, hoping that she will block the curse and run into one of them.

She does get a shield up, but to my horror, the curse passes right through. Her eyes widen for only a second before it spears her in the abdomen, and there is a sickening _rip. _

I feel my stomach drop out from under me, just as Daphne drops to the floor.

I rush over to her, and drop my wands on the floor. By the time I reach her, there is blood everywhere. "Oh, Merlin… Daphne, can you hear me? I'm so sorry. Are you all right?"

It is the stupidest question I have ever asked, but it is the only thing my mouth can come up with. My mind is too occupied thinking of solutions to this. I don't know the counter curse, and this is dark magic, which does damage beyond the capability of the meagre few healing spells that I know.

Daphne's stomach–that smooth, perfect stomach that just twenty minutes ago I had been caressing–is ripped open twice vertically from her ribs to her hips.

"Kill me." She coughs, and spits blood out of her mouth.

"No," I say, while I look at her frantically. "No, I can still save you."

"Kill me." Her blue eyes–those blue eyes–are looking straight at me, straight through me. "Better than… going home. My mother... please…"

"I'll save you, and marry you, and take you away from him!" I say. "Just don't die! Hold on. I'll get Madame Pomfrey–"

Daphne just moans.

"Hold on, Daphne! Please don't do this to me–"

Her hand clasps mine even tighter. "Not your fault–"

"Daphne, please don't! _Fawkes! Fawkes!_" It is a desperate attempt, but everything I know, everything I feel tells me it will work.

There is no flash of fire.

Instead, I plead. "Daphne, I love you; please don't die! Just hold on!"

Daphne's eyes have gone cloudy and are unfocused. It is the end. "I–"

Her head falls to the side. She is no longer breathing. I feel a little whisper of wind. I am not sure what it is, but in that moment, I believe I am witnessing Daphne's soul slipping away from me forever.

I am not rational at this point, but what sane parts are left inside of me are screaming for my own death. I have committed an act of unconscionable evil. I have killed the very woman who needed me most.

I pick up the elder wand and aim it at my own head, ready to end it all.

The words do not come. Only tears.

* * *

"What's the matter, Mr. Potter?"

I am sitting on a bed in the Hospital Wing. I am sure I look pale and quite a bit off. I feel feverish as it is. I've killed before, but never before have I felt like I have killed.

Pomfrey is looking at me oddly.

"I'm just… feeling a little feverish, Ma'am," I say. "Don't suppose you've got anything for that–?"

"I do," she says, and she turns her back to look through her potions store.

I fully intend to take it, but Pomfrey's next question shocks me. "How are you and the Greengrass girl getting along, Mr. Potter? Have you worked things out with her yet?"

"Oh," I say. "Um, well, they're all right, I guess." I have completely forgotten that I had spoken to Pomfrey way back when I first felt stirrings for Daphne.

Pomfrey hands me the potion, and without ado, I uncap it and down it. Expired potion or not, I need something in me.

"Are you quite all right?" she asks. The odd look has returned.

"Fine," I say. "Just a little off."

"Okay, then," she replies. "Just have a lie-down on the bed, and I'll come back to check on you in about ten minutes. If you're feeling better, you can go back to your dorm."

She turns her back to walk to her office, and I strike.

"_Obliviate!"_

Pomfrey will forever remember me asking over Ginny Weasley, instead. Forgetting a conversation ever happened is difficult; the pining ex-boyfriend is far easier to believe. I cannot let anyone know about what has passed between Daphne and me.

She will be mine forever, and no man will take me from her.

* * *

"Potter–this way, please."

I follow Headmistress McGonagall out of the door and down the hallway. It is two days later, and while I look far better, I still feel like I am crumbling inside. I have been preparing for what is going to happen now, but everything may fall down around me right now.

We arrive in the Headmistress's office five minutes later. Inside the room are Head Auror Kingsley Shacklebolt and–to my surprise–Ron.

"Ron!" I exclaim.

Ron rises, and we both embrace.

"What on Earth are you doing here, mate?" I ask him.

Ron smiles. "Shack's hired me away from Fred. Needed the power of some of the Weasley name to help push his department's agenda forward, you know? So I'm here, officially, as an Auror, but unofficially as a transcriptionist."

I laugh. "Huh. This is why we ought to keep up in correspondence."

Ron smiles, but his smile falls just a little. "Look, Harry, both Shack and I know you're innocent–neither of us think you'd ever be seen with one of those Snakes–but we've got to be keeping up appearances. We'll make this as painless as possible."

I nod, and release Ron, only to have Kingsley offer me a massive hand. I shake it, and sit down in the chair offered to me.

"Harry," says Kingsley, "we hope you know that this is just formality–"

"Yeah," I say. "Ron's explained it to me. Still, the law's the law, right? Got to be seen doing something."

Kingsley nods. "Now, you don't have to–"

"–Take Veritaserum. I know," I finish. "But I elect to do so. Better to indemnify myself right now."

Kingsley smiles. "Then I'll need your wand."

I hand over my holly wand. Kingsley looks at it, and with a flick, calls up a history of the last twenty spells I have cast–something that's been designed since Voldemort's downfall that makes the Department of Magical Law Enforcement's job a lot easier.

Kingsley is satisfied by the manifest. There are only minor charms on it: a Warming Charm, a Cheering Charm–none of these things are suspect in the slightest. I know this because I have taken the time to meticulously falsify that manifest.

He sets my wand down on the Headmistress's desk. "All right, then?" he asks. "Are you ready for this?"

"I'm ready," I say.

Kingsley pulls a little tiny phial with a dropper out. This little bottle, in its present state, can have me incarcerated for a long time.

As Kingsley approaches, I open my mouth to receive the drops. Two seconds before he places three tiny beads of the liquid in my mouth, my left hand twitches just slightly.

Truth, as it stands, is now inside the breast pocket of my robes. Switching spells are easy to cast.

The drops are in my mouth, and I swallow audibly. Another twitch, and truth is back in Kingsley's hands. Undetectable.

I've thought of how to circumvent Veritaserum for a while, now. I had originally planned to use my Occlumency, but that was a gamble. Besides, nobody knows that I have Dumbledore's wand; it is all too easy to rig the game.

"You ready, Ron?"

Ron's got a Quick-Quotes Quill set up on parchment on McGonagall's desk. "Ready, Shack."

"All right," says Kingsley. "Today is December 14, 1997. Head Auror Kingsley Shacklebolt interrogating; Junior Auror Ronald Weasley, scribe. Suspect's name is one Harry Potter. Let the record show that the suspect has agreed, willingly, to take Veritaserum. Three drops were administered at… 3:21 PM. Interrogation commences." Shack turns to me. "What is your name?"

"Harry James Potter." I school my features to remain neutral.

"Your date of birth?"

"July 31st, 1980."

"Do you understand what brings us here today?"

"Yes."

"Please elaborate."

"You are investigating the disappearance of Daphne Greengrass."

"Correct," says Kingsley. "How many times have you met Miss Greengrass before?"

"Several times. I come across her on a weekly basis, due to classes."

"Do you harbor any ill will toward Miss Greengrass?"

"Only to the extent that she is a Slytherin," I reply, "and I don't trust Slytherins."

"Do you have anything to say about Miss Greengrass's disappearance?"

"No."

"Would you care to elaborate as to why not?"

"Yes."

"Please do so."

"I don't know anything about Greengrass's whereabouts," I say. "I am ashamed that such an occurrence has happened on my watch, though. I suspect that she left of her own volition, since Hogwarts is a very safe place."

"What leads you to believe that she left on her own?"

"Just my intuition," I say. "I don't believe that anybody could enter the school without the Headmistress's knowledge. Eliminate the impossible…"

"And whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth," finishes Kingsley. "Good. A few more questions, Mr. Potter. When do you believe that Miss Greengrass disappeared?"

"The last time I saw her was at lunch in the Great Hall two days ago."

"No time after that?"

"No."

"All right," says Shacklebolt. "Do you know if Miss Greengrass was dating anyone?"

"No."

"Clarify: you don't know, or she wasn't dating someone?"

"I don't know."

Kingsley scribbles down a note on a clipboard he's carrying. "That about covers it… Just one more question. Can you tell us where you were on the night of the twelfth?"

"I was brewing potions in Madam Pomfrey's office," I say. "I felt a bit queasy, and accidentally knocked over the cauldron. Madam Pomfrey gave me a potion and put me to bed in the Hospital Wing. I remained there until nine the next day."

"That checks out with Pomfrey's story," says Ron to Kingsley. Of course it checks out; I wrote her story myself.

"Good," says Kingsley. "Just a few more, Harry: what were you brewing?

"Calming Draught," I say. My alibi is completely solid.

"What's the third ingredient in that?"

"Is that really necessary?" asks Ron.

"Monkshood," I say.

Kingsley looks at Ron.

"Don't look at me!" says Ron. "You waived the Potions requirement–"

"Right," says Kingsley. "Well, it sounds right. Harry, you're free to go. If you hear anything about Miss Greengrass, please let us know right away."

I stand up. I am still under the influence, technically, so I have to be careful with what I say. "I will."

Ron pats my back again. "Take care of yourself, mate."

"You too," I reply. "Don't impregnate Hermione."

Ron flushes. "Harry, do you honestly think I'd be so stupid as to forget to–?"

"Yes," I reply.

Kingsley chuckles. Ron hits me on the back, and we say our goodbyes.

* * *

_BODY FOUND IN DIAGON ALLEY_

_Mirabelle Adams, AWP_

_The Department of Magical Law Enforcement is investigating a suspicious death that they believe occurred early Thursday morning._

_The body of Gaetan Greengrass, 41, was found in a refuse bin outside of the Leaky Cauldron on April 2, 1998. The elder Greengrass was well-known to Prophet Readers for his emotional plea for the safe return of his daughter, Daphne Greengrass, who vanished in December of last year._

_Head Auror Shacklebolt's official statement has not indicated that foul play is an issue._

_"At this point in time, we are simply investigating a suspicious death. We have no reason, as of yet, to believe that there is any funny business at the root of this, or that it is related to any of the other unfortunate events of this year. As always, we urge the public to be vigilant, and to travel in groups."_

_The death comes at a time of growing concerns about safety in the community, and amidst calls for the resignation of Acting Minister Cecil Perkins. Perkins has been accused of inadequately supporting measures to find the six Hogwarts students who are presumed abducted._

_Aurors are still perplexed as to the whereabouts of Gregory Goyle, 19; Blaise Zabini, 19; Daphne Greengrass, 18; Theodore Nott, 18; Dylan Urquhart, 17; and Malcolm Baddock, 16. _

I put down the _Daily Prophet_, and trade it for my spoon.

Hermione is sitting across from me, eating a banana. "Sad business, isn't it?" she says.

I nod. "It's ridiculous that the Minister isn't doing more. He ought to be sacked like Fudge was."

Of course, I am lying. I am very happy with Minister Perkins' incompetence.

* * *

A day later, I am again sitting on a bed in Madam Pomfrey's Hospital. She has called me here, and I would be nervous, if I wasn't aware of just how soundly Memory Charmed she was.

The medi-witch walks into the room. "Ah, Mr. Potter! I was wondering when you would get here."

"Ma'am," I say, respectfully. "What can I do for you?"

"Well," she says, "I'm afraid I've been running out of Pepper-Up Potion for a while now–flu season, you know–and I gave my last batch out this morning. I was wondering if you'd be willing to brew some up for me–?"

"Of course," I say with a smile. "Nothing would please me more."

We head into her office. It is a sprawling heap of papers that threatens to cave in at any time, but there is a clean corner where she always has a cauldron set up for me.

"Oh," she says, "by the way, another issue of Potions Quarterly came. It's on the bench, there, if you want to read it."

"Oh, excellent," I say. "You know, I really ought to consider subscribing, myself, especially if I take up Minerva's offer–"

Pomfrey smiles. "I do hope you take her up, Mr. Potter. It has been _so_ long since we've had a Potions Master who hasn't had some terrible secret."

I laugh. "Well, if it helps to reassure you, I'll roll up my sleeves and kiss a woman." Of course, I refer to the late Professor Snape's Dark Mark, and to the former Professor Slughorn's surprising amorous advances toward Professor Flitwick.

"It would please me beyond belief," says Pomfrey. "Holler if you need anything, Potter; I'll just be doing some spring cleaning in the cupboards."

"Right-o, Ma'am."

Pomfrey leaves, and I am left with the cauldron.

Pepper-Up is simple to brew. I quickly dice the four ingredients I need, and toss them into the cauldron to simmer. I have a half-an-hour until I need to stir, so I kick back and crack the issue of Potions Quarterly.

I skip all the adverts, since I am quite content with the cauldrons that I do have. Instead, I go right to the first article, _Reptilian Volatile Organic Compound Emission Use in Antivenin._ It is really rather fascinating, though a bit gruesome in the details: essentially, the researcher killed a bunch of snakes, let them decompose for a while, and then used the gasses and liquids that resulted for potions. His results are negligible–not a serious enough gain to even suggest a change in brewing practice–but halfway down the page, I read a paragraph that makes my heart stop.

_While the results are undoubtedly impressive and widely applicable, it is with some hesitation that I note there were several interesting effects on other potions that I had previously believed were sufficiently secured. Presumable airborne contamination of Calming Draught was of particular note; roughly half of the purchasers of the potion returned it, reporting irregular side effects such as drowsiness, amorousness, and slight intoxication. In the face of these significant findings, I can see only one potential benefit: as one of my customers put it, "Best beer I ever drank."_

I pale, and I start to shake.

There is a decomposing 100-ton snake in the Chamber of Secrets–and I actively cast Air Circulation Charms down there.

I sit there in tears for fifteen minutes. There is a girl in the Chamber, who is silent for ever more, preserved in the very image of life by a Self-Refreshing Evergreen Charm. Her perfect body will lie in the Chamber forever.

I visit her daily when I go to brew.

I remember my feelings for her perfectly. I loved her.

I still love her.

* * *

I hold as still as I can. I am expecting her around the corner any minute, and my silence is absolutely critical.

The lanky blonde enters my sight. "Traaaacey," I say, teasingly, once she rounds the corner.

She lets out a frightened yelp as she sees me. "Mab-on-a-stick!" she exclaims. She is so adorable; I just want to kiss her then and there.

I cancel the glamour that makes me look like a gargoyle, and I turn to her. "Did you like that one?" I ask. I hold my grin, waiting for her inevitable praise. I can be so creative when I'm inspired by love.


End file.
